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“The face of the lion became more fearfully distinct.” 





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the covntry boy 

by FORREST CRISSEY 


ILLV5TRATED BY 


GRIS ELD A MARSHALL M C CLVRL 


CHICAGO . NEW YORK. TORONTO 

FLEMING H REVFXL COMPANY , 

LONDON EDiNB\ r RGH 


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the library of 

CONGRESS, 
Tv»u Copi*e> Received 

OCT 26 1903 

OotyoioMT Enttjv 

( pc/ ■ 2,I9°3 

CLASS Ck. XX<V No 


Copyright, 1903 

,* f i.eJviing H. Rjc^iL Company 
« « « « • « « Se^lrnber 


TO 

PHIN. M. MILLER 

Of “ Old Chautauqua ” 


THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT 



‘HE author gratefully acknowledges 


the courtesy of the editors and pub- 
lishers of the Saturday Evening Post , the 
Woman! $ Home Companion , and the Chicago 
Evening Post , in permitting him to reprint 
in this volume sketches which originally 
appeared in the columns of their publica- 


tions. 



r 


CONTENTS 


The Lion by the Roadside 
In the Sugar Bush 
Wiping Dishes for Mother 
Robinson Crusoe’s Temptation 
Threshing-Floor Theology 
Uncle Tom’s Cabin .... 
Revolt of the Penitent 
The Summer Mother West East . 
The New Teacher . 

The Needle’s Eye .... 
Day-Dreams under the Butternuts . 
Snatched from the Sacrifice 
Getting his First Gun 
The Girl with the Brown Braids 
Skinny Munger’s Baptism . 

When Mame Finished her Schooling 
Staying All Night in Town 
Sympathizing with Mame 
The Smoke of Incense 
Mis’ Totman’s Baby 


PAGE 

11 

18 

25 

33 

41 

50 

59 

69 

77 

85 

93 

101 

121 

129 

137 

145 

153 

161 

167 

175 


7 


CONTENTS 


Mother’s Sick Headache Day . . . 184 

Mame’s Beau . . . . . . 192 

Visiting the New Teacher . . . 200 

Out into the World . . . . 208 

At a Strange Altar . . . . .214 

Among the Philistines .... 222 

Songs and Homesickness .... 230 

Driven without the Camp . . . 238 

How the Meteor Struck Hardscrabble . 260 


8 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


“The face of the lion became more fear- 
fully distinct” . . . Frontispiece 




“HOW THE MARINERS HAD DECIDED THAT ONE 
OF THEIR NUMBER MUST DIE ” 


FACING 

PAGE 

30 




4 4 Chanced to notice a pipe of peculiar 

pattern” . . . . . .36 

“ FREQUENTLY OBLIGED TO TURN HAND- 
SPRINGS AND SOMERSAULTS” . . 55 

“He HUNG ABOUT THE SCENE OF THESE FINAL 

preparations” . . . . . 74 ' 

“The circle started forward” . . 91 x 

“Put an arm about the boy’s neck” . 120 ^ 

“ Smartie ! ” ...... 135 ^ 

4 4 Suddenly straightened up and listened 

intently” . . . . . . 165 

44 IMPRESSED INTO A HIGH CHAIR 5 ’ . 167 


44 His TIMID KNOCK WAS ANSWERED BY HIS 

< 

mother” ...... 178 f 

9 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


“ LEANED THE BROOM AGAINST THE 

STOVE AND ATTEMPTED TO TURN THE EGGS 
WITH THE NARROW BLADE ” 

“Half of the family photograph album 

RESTED ” . 

“He threw himself astride a chair and 

SOBBED OUT HIS HOMESICKNESS ” 

“Gentlemen, as I’ve said before to-night, 
THIS HAIN’t NO human’s WORK. It’s THE 

Almighty’s doin’s” . 


10 


185 

195 <- 
231 V 

277 


THE 


COUNTRY BOY 


THE LION BY THE ROADSIDE 

H ARLOW was as thoroughgoing and 
unmitigated a little coward as ever 
ran from an open cellar-door, dreaded the 
wholesome shadows of a summer twilight, or 
shrunk and cowered under the artillery of a 
thunder-storm. 

He was disagreeably good, and solemnly 
disagreeable. Before he met the lion by the 
roadside he had been comfortably uncon- 
scious of an uncomfortable world ; but his 
encounter with the royal beast jarred open 
his eyes and put a summary end to his 
“ puppy slumber.” Thereafter he was awake, 
and accumulated impressions as rapidly as he 
had previously repelled them. 

The exact nature of the lion which fur- 
nished him with so sudden and violent an 
11 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


introduction to the conscious world is best 
understood by a glimpse into the mentality 
of the boy. His conscience was prematurely 
developed and as sensitive as quicksilver. 

Harlow’s personal appearance may be dis- 
posed of at a single stroke. He had a long, 
thin face ; big, dreamy, blue eyes ; light, wav- 
ing hair, and a complexion of exquisite fair- 
ness that flaunted the slightest emotion of 
embarrassment in tell-tale rings of crimson 
upon the clear background of his almost 
transparent cheeks. An irrepressible incli- 
nation to wiggle, stare, and wheeze did not 
tend to create a strong demand for his near 
society on the part of his adult associates. 
Consequently he was much alone. But he 
was not without resource in his solitude : he 
imagined people who were fond of him, who 
were not perpetually reminding him to “ stop 
sniffling,” and to whom he was not an undis- 
guised offence. It was with these agreeably 
fictitious but very real companions that he 
spent most of his childhood. All this, how- 
ever, was after his awakening to the pride 
and pain of life, the morning of his great 
adventure ! 

The arrival of a telegram in the house- 
hold of which Harlow was the least mem- 
12 


LION BY THE ROADSIDE 


ber was an event of startling importance. 
A neighbor had brought one of these un- 
usual communications from the village in 
the evening. It demanded the presence 
of the father and mother at the county seat 
the day following. In the morning the boy 
was awakened very early. 

“ After breakfast,” explained the father, 
“ you 11 have to run over to Buck’s and tell 
Abe I can’t help him thrash to-day ’cause 
mother and I must go to Mayville.” 

When the boy had disposed of numerous 
pancakes he silently passed into the “ well- 
room,” — an unfinished rear apartment of 
the “ L ” which contained the big well-curb 
and also served as a woodshed. Here — by 
standing on his tiptoes, making a quick, up- 
ward spring, and tapping its brim with his 
outstretched hand — he dislodged the palm- 
leaf hat from the spike on which it hung. 
There were other nails and pegs within his 
reach, but he preferred to use this higher 
one because it required a dexterous toss of 
the hat to lodge it in place. The hat itself 
was not without individuality. Maternal 
hands had carefully bound the brim with 
dark calico ; but the elongated, tapering 
shape of the crown was an example of the 
13 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


boy’s industrious vagrancy. Only long as- 
sociation with a meadow brook, the straining 
of much water, and the catching of many 
minnows can impart to a palm-leaf hat that 
peculiar, volcanic construction of crown and 
curling of brim. 

The soft, blue-gray shadows of the morn- 
ing — for it was yet very early — exerted a 
mellowing influence upon the emotions of 
the small courier. The West Woods were 
indistinctly fantastic, and the Old Elm, 
down the road which led past Buck’s to the 
Munger School, was a towering shadow pic- 
ture. Before he had passed under the bal- 
sams and out the front gate he was inwardly 
attuned to the semi-spectral coloring of the 
dim, morning world. His bare feet were 
white and glistening with gathered dew, but 
he plunged at once into the thick dust of 
the roadbed. From a point of the stake- 
and-rider fence a piebald bobolink tossed 
him a merry, insolent greeting. The or- 
chard, which skirted the roadside, was hung 
thick with the red and golden globes of its 
summer fruitage. He was about to take 
the short cut through the orchard and inci- 
dentally avail himself of this temptation to 
free-forage, when something beside the road, 
14 


LION BY THE ROADSIDE 


directly opposite the bars of the Buck farm- 
yard, caught Ills eye. 

As he gazed, the flush died out of his 
cheeks, the pupils of his eyes enlarged until 
the blue iris was almost invisible, and the 
front of his gingham waist shook with each 
beat of his palpitating heart. The object 
swiftly assumed form and definiteness. It 
was a huge lion, reclining in easy majesty 
on the grass which bordered the wheel track. 
He saw, more distinctly than he had ever 
before seen anything, the big, bearded head 
of the tawny creature directly facing him. 

Shaking like the leaves of the silver pop- 
lar a few rods from him, Harlow stood in 
the dust, completely terrorized and unable 
to cry out or to flee. The face of the lion 
became more fearfully distinct with every 
passing second. The fierce eyes, the dark 
markings of the nose, the heavy jaws, and 
the mass of waving mane grew into bolder 
relief. But the lazy flapping of the creat- 
ure’s tufted tail was the most ominous and 
terrifying of all the impressions which came 
to Harlow in that moment of abject agony. 
Each indolent stroke of this appendage sent 
a shiver of horror through the fascinated 
spectator. 


15 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


How long this strain could have been en- 
dured is a problem which, happily, was not 
put to the test, for the boy heard from be- 
hind him the warbled strains of “ Blue-Eyed 
Mary.” Without glancing back over his 
shoulder he knew that Ben Lord was com- 
ing — for only Ben could whistle those bird- 
like trills. With shaking and uncertain 
hand, the boy pointed out the awful object 
ahead. But Ben laughed, shook the pitch- 
fork which he carried in his hand, and care- 
lessly remarked : 

“ I guess I ’m enough for him, sonny. I’ll 
fix him with this.” 

Then he resumed his tune and walked 
merrily on into the face of certain death — 
a bigger hero in Harlow’s eyes than any 
Knight of the Table Round with which he 
subsequently became acquainted in story 
books ! A cloud of dust, swiftly lengthen- 
ing in the direction of the boy’s home, told 
that the small fugitive had suddenly recov- 
ered the use of his legs. Once safely within 
the kitchen, he panted out the details of 
his wild escape, only to be again laughed at 
and told that he had probably seen a strag- 
gling sorrel horse or a tuft of shaking weeds. 

This unbelief pained and wounded the 
16 


LION BY THE ROADSIDE 


adventurer ; but it did not shake his faith 
in the awful verity of the experience. For 
months he lived in daily and acute expec- 
tation of the reappearance of the roadside 
lion, and from that moment he was awake 
and alive to nature’s thousand suggestions. 
He saw visions and dreams where other 
boys beheld only rocks, fields, woods and 
sky. 


2 


IT 


IN THE SUGAR BUSH 


HE sauce of life which the Fates of- 



1 fered to Harlow was perhaps the 
same commonplace potion that has regaled 
the lips of hundreds of other country boys ; 
but he seasoned it with the spice of imagi- 
nation. The rich maple odors of the boil- 
ing caldron in the heart of the “ sugar bush,” 
and the woodsy fragrance of the burning 
boughs which blackened the sides of the big 
kettle and sent a tall spiral of smoke above 
the dark horizon line of the West Woods 
had in them the soul and essence of spring. 
This composite smell is the cleanest and 
most wholesome that ever greeted the nos- 
trils of man ! Perfumes from the Indies and 
the aroma of spices from Ceylon are stale 
and insipid compared with the hale, out-of- 
door fragrance distilled from the maple’s life- 
blood, mingled with the poignant incense of 
burning branches and leaves ! 

The clock which sounded the sure arrival 
of the season for the tapping was the silent 


18 


IN THE SUGAR BUSH 

fall of the warm, wet sugar snow. This was 
the first of nature’s signs which Harlow 
learned to interpret. When he saw the 
big, rough-coated flakes, shaggy as chestnut 
burrs, splash against the panes of the kitchen 
window he knew that sounds of preparation, 
the rattle of sap-buckets and the clatter of 
spouts would ere long be heard in the milk- 
house, where the requisites of sugar-making 
were stored. And those buckets were not 
the hooded, galvanized, water-proof affairs 
with which the commercial sugar camp con- 
ducts its sap-gathering business. 

Had not Harlow sat for hours amid the 
sweet-smelling shavings of the little cooper 
shop in the Hollow, and watched the flashing 
strokes of the draw-shave and the adz which 
fashioned hoops and staves for scores of 
those buckets ? And what a merry, clatter- 
ing tune was played as those hoops were 
driven tightly home around the pine staves ! 
The buckets were curiously dumpy in con- 
struction, being larger at the bottom than 
at the top. 

But the making of the spouts was a 
domestic part of the preparations in which 
Harlow himself took a hand. The short, 
roughly whittled sticks were first bored 
19 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


lengthwise with a long gimlet and the hole 
thus made was then seared smooth by the 
insertion of a large wire or burner, heated 
red in the kitchen stove. The ride to the 
bush in the bobsled, heaped high with the 
clattering sap-buckets, was a more wonder- 
ful excursion to the country boy than is a 
tour of resorts and watering-places to the 
present-day children of the city. 

The perennial re-laying of the founda- 
tions of the sugar camp was attended by no 
ceremonies other than scraping away the 
snow for the firebed, erecting the supports 
of the kettle, and placing the big hogshead 
which was to serve as a sap tank on its rude, 
elevated platform. All these commonplace 
offices were invested by the country boy 
with a pomp and feeling almost Druidical in 
its romanticism. The gaping caldron, of the 
sugar bush in which Harlow worked as fire 
tender, was hung in the most primitive man- 
ner, the bale being suspended from a long 
hickory pole which rested in the crotches of 
two stalwart young saplings six or eight 
feet apart. 

His pride suffered not a little from the 
fact that Bascom’s bush, just over the line 
fence, was equipped with a magnificently 
20 


IN THE SUGAR BUSH 


impressive “sweep kettle,” the caldron de- 
pending by a long chain from the end of a 
thirty-foot hickory which balanced and 
turned upon a pin in the end of a short 
“ stub ” or tall stump. By elevating and 
depressing the heavy butt of the long sweep 
the kettle was at will raised, lowered, and 
swung to and from the fire. The sweep 
was held in place by a series of stout pegs 
driven into the side of a hemlock tree, 
against which the butt of the huge lever 
rested. 

There was something deliciously daring 
and venturesome to Harlow in keeping the 
long night vigils in the bush, which fre- 
quently became a necessary part of the 
“ syruping down ” process. On these occa- 
sions he snuggled close to the side of Steve 
Larkins, the hired man, secretly starting, 
with ill-disguised fear, at every sound which 
echoed ominously through the dark woods. 
The sloughing of a tiny avalanche of thaw- 
ing snow from the laden branches of a hem- 
lock, the rustle of the wind in the shivering 
mantle of a beech, or the cautious stirring o;f 
some belated and carousing squirrel were 
sounds not soft enough to escape detection 
by his strained and alert ears. 

21 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


Every ripple of commotion which faintly 
disturbed the surface of the deep nocturnal 
silence brought a whispered “ What ’s that ? ” 
from his lips, and the rasping scream of a 
mocking little screech-owl made him clutch 
his companion’s sleeve in a paroxysm of 
fright. Under the spell of the tales with 
which the hired man regaled his small and 
credulous listener in those midnight watches, 
the peaceful sugar bush was transformed, in 
Harlow’s eyes, into a mountain camp in 
the western wilderness, the long shadows 
which radiated from the centre of light be- 
neath the caldron becoming instinct with 
spying savages and couchant panthers. But 
as the narrator reached the crisis of each tale 
he invariably paused in his recital, took the 
long-handled skimmer, and removed, with 
provoking deliberation, the gathered scum 
from the seething surface of the kettle’s 
contents. 

Later came the return to the house 
through the blue morning shadows. Harlow 
had spent a night in the woods, he had been 
the comrade of the hired man, and his heart 
swelled with pride and contentment ! 

When neighbors old and young, cousins 
from far and near, the minister and the 
22 


IN THE SUGAR BUSH 


school teacher gathered at the fragrant and 
sticky function known as 4 4 sugaring off,” 
not a person in the big country kitchen was 
able to extract more sweetness from the 
occasion than Harlow. 

His task was to pack the cleanest and 
dampest snow into the big milk-pans with 
which the long table was set. He sniffed 
the aroma from the copper boiler on the 
kitchen stove and watched his mother deftly 
bend the end of a broom-straw into a loop 
and dip it lightly into the wrinkled, foaming 
volcanic surface of the cooking sugar. 
When a transparent film overspread the loop 
of the broom-straw, he sent up the glad 
shout “ It aperns ! It aperns ! ” This was 
the signal for the carnival to begin. Saucers 
of the hot maple were passed to the guests 
and the saccharine feast was gaily opened. 

The snow in the pans immediately became 
streaked and spotted with tiny rills and 
ponds of maple which quickly hardened 
into yielding wax of incredible sweetness. 
These blotches of wax were rolled upon the 
points of spoons and conveyed to the mouths 
of the feasters with a deftness as skilful as 
that by which a Celestial manipulates his 
chop-sticks. 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


Then began the contest in “ graining.” 
The saucers were refilled and spoon-bowls 
were made to glide in swift circles through 
the dark brown masses, which gave out a 
sticky, crackling sound as the fluid became 
more dense and changed its hue to creamy 
whiteness. When the spoons could no 
longer move and each saucer held a soft 
granulated mass of sweetness, there was a 
comparison of product and the saucer which 
showed the whitest contents was awarded 
the honors of the “graining bee.” 

Gorged within and sticky without, Harlow 
strove manfully to make himself a bundle of 
sweetness. Oft he repented of his greed and 
silently vowed never again to join in the 
Feast of the Maples — but before bed time 
of those very days he was again found in the 
dusky precincts of the kitchen, seeking what 
he might devour, and scraping boiler and 
kettle with renewed vigor. 


24 


WIPING DISHES FOP MOTHER 


W HILE Harlow yet lingered in the 
genderless mists of childish igno- 
rance, and before he learned to draw the 
distinctions of sex in the choice of his small 
tasks and pastimes, he did, with shameless 
ingenuousness, many things which older boys 
scorned as “ girl-babyish ” and effeminate. 
Not until after he had begun to wear long, 
bagging trousers, cut from discarded paternal 
stock, did the pathetic thought occur to him 
that a certain china doll, with red cheeks 
and waving hair, was no longer a fit compan- 
ion for his bed-time hours. And for several 
months after he became conscious of an in- 
congruity in the association of a boy, who 
wore pants with pockets, and a rosy-faced 
doll, he covertly clung to the latter, hiding 
it beneath the bedclothes when he retired, 
and concealing it in the till of a big chest 
as soon as he arose. 

But long after he had stifled his inclination 
to hug the half-human creature of sawdust 
25 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


and china he continued to merit the secret 
scorn of his boy associates by helping his 
mother wipe dishes. This function was dis- 
charged with the regularity of the twilight. 
He did not then understand what made that 
evening hour of dish-wiping dearer than all 
the others of the day ; he only knew that 
the house was very silent ; that he stood 
close beside his mother, and that together 
they worked and talked as the shadows 
deepened. 

This vesper stillness was only compara- 
tive, not absolute. It had a softly thrilling 
symphony of its own — clearly distinct if 
he chose to heed it ; delightfully vague 
and unobtrusive if nearer sounds or livelier 
thoughts engaged his attention. The pul- 
sating chorus of crickets and frogs formed 
the basic chord of this insistent evening mon- 
ody ; but it had occasional variations in the 
yelping of foxes down on the Flat — shy, 
tentative barks easily distinguishable from 
the deeper and more threatening tones of 
distant dogs. 

Occasionally the night-hawks — which 
wheeled and plunged in erratic flight 
through the upper air, would shatter the 
silence with a rasping and petulant cry, and 
26 


WIPING DISHES 


their companions of twilight gloom, the 
mad-winged bats, would utter their uncanny 
squeaks as they dived downward after flee- 
ing insects. Sometimes a belated robin, 
with heart too full of summer joys to heed 
the gray twilight shadows, sang on, mingling 
his mellow and lilting refrain with the more 
sombre night sounds which floated in 
through the open kitchen-doors to the busy 
mother and her small helper. 

The faint breeze which stirred through 
that kitchen was softer and sweeter than 
any which has since breathed at dusk 
through any shadowy spaces that Harlow 
has been able to find. It was heavy with 
honeyed odors from the drooping and pen- 
cilled sprays of locust blooms, which hung 
from every branch of the thorny trees to 
the south of the “ L.” But, sweeter than 
fragrance of locust or song of robin, were 
the rare words of praise which the mother 
occasionally bestowed as she unpinned the 
long apron from about the neck of her small 
assistant after the last dish had been wiped. 
It was not often that this mother bestowed 
words of affection or praise, for she was a 
very shy woman who found it far easier to 
toil in patient silence for those she loved 
27 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


than to speak her thoughts. If, in the 
depths of his consciousness, Harlow missed 
something of maternal demonstrativeness, he 
realized how ceaselessly his mothers hands 
were doing for those of her household ! 

It was doubtless because he saw them 
oftener and more closely at the dishwashing 
task than in any other work that Harlow 
came to think of his mother’s hands as par- 
boiled and dripping, wrinkled like the sur- 
face of sour cream, and curiously stained and 
mottled. Even the nails were corrugated 
and drawn down at the points by the hot 
suds of the dishpan and washtub. He ob- 
served upon her face the same pale and 
tawny discoloration which spread over the 
backs of her hands and it made him think 
of certain countries on the map in his school 
geography. 

Once, after much silent speculation, he 
ventured to ask her how she came by the 
“ queer spot,” but she appeared not to hear 
and the question was not repeated. 

There were other impressions which the 
boy gained as he stood beside the sink and 
laboriously polished each dish with the dry- 
ing towel. He noticed that the rays from 
the flame of the yellow candle — for it was 
28 


WIPING DISHES 


often lighted before the last article of the 
tableware was dried — made a swath of light 
upon the smooth surface of his mother’s 
brown hair, like that which spanned the 
brook when the moon shone brightly upon 
its still waters. Maybe it was this peculiar- 
ity of his mother’s head which always sug- 
gested to his childish fancy the pictures in 
the family Bible of angels and of the Christ, 
with their radiant halos and patient and 
gentle faces. Or perhaps it was her counte- 
nance more than the sheen of the candle- 
light upon her hair which was responsible 
for this association with the haloed ones of 
holy writ. 

It was during these vigils beside the 
kitchen sink that the boy made his first ven- 
tures at probing the mysteries of birth and 
of death, of the whence and the whither of 
existence. But it was only when hard 
pressed by the awakening longing to solve 
the enigma of human fate that he pro- 
pounded these solemn problems. He liked 
better to hear from her lips the tale of an 
ancient ancestor, who had suffered ship- 
wreck on the open sea. The cheerful clatter 
of the dishes in the big pan helped to for- 
tify him against a too vivid realization of 
29 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


the sufferings and privations endured by 
this great-great-uncle, during the days in 
which the latter drifted upon a raft in 
mid-ocean. 

Although this recital was subject to end- 
less repetitions, its tragic crisis never failed 
to move the spell-bound auditor to the veiy 
depths. 

When, in the course of the tale, the fam- 
ished mariners had not only devoured the 
last morsel of legitimate food on the raft, 
but had cut their boots into small strips and 
chewed the crisp leather until only the soles 
remained, Harlow’s mouth stood as wide 
open as had those of the castaways, who 
were described as being parched with thirst 
until their tongues hung out between their 
lax jaws. But as the supreme climax of the 
narrative was reached and the low, quiet 
voice of the mother related, in a matter-of- 
fact monotone, how the mariners had decided 
that one of their number must die, and prep- 
arations were made to “ draw cuts ” for the 
sacrificial victim, the dish towel hung limply 
at the boy’s side and trailed carelessly upon 
the floor. 

The unaffected simplicity with which the 
story was told not only betrayed the narra- 
30 



“The dish towel hung limply at the boy’s side.” 



WIPING DISHES 


tor’s firm faith in its truthfulness, but also 
carried with it a power of conviction which 
rendered it more realistic than any amount 
of elocutionary skill could have done. The 
picture which she drew of the joy that 
thrilled the wretched castaways as they 
caught sight of a distant sail and hoisted a 
red shirt upon the end of an oar caused the 
small listener to leap with excitement and 
flaunt the dish towel as frantically as if he 
were of the raft’s perishing crew, whose only 
hope depended upon the violence of his 
gestures. 

A deep-drawn sigh of relief never failed 
to escape his lips as the narrator told how 
the small boat was lowered from the distant 
ship, slowly made its way to the raft, and 
gathered in the over-wrought castaways, 
some of whom fainted as soon as the awful 
tension of anxiety was relaxed. 

When the story of t€ Uncle Nat’s Ship- 
wreck ” and other companion tales were 
finished, Harlow hung the dish towel upon 
the oven door and stole away to the swing, 
between the tall Northern- Spy trees, where 
he gently swayed himself backward and for- 
ward by scuffing the soles of his bare feet 
against the well-worn earth beneath the 
31 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


swingboard. Here he “ let the old cat die " 
innumerable and lingering deaths as he rumi- 
nated upon the heroic tales to which he had 
listened. There was a near and soothing 
sense of companionship in the sound of his 
mother’s voice as she moved about the 
kitchen humming the air of the hymn : 

I ’m a pilgrim and I ’m a stranger ; 

I can tarry, I can tarry but a night ! 

He was very glad, however, that the song 
was not true and that his mother would 
tarry for many, many nights about the old 
home. But, still, the sad suggestion of the 
song, with its gloomy reflections upon the 
fleeting and transitory nature of human ex- 
istence, made him glad that he had wiped 
the dishes for her so many times in the past, 
and he resolved afresh that every twilight, 
until he grew to be a man, should find him 
at his post of duty beside the kitchen sink, 
dish towel in hand, helping his mother. 


ROBINSON CRUSOE’S TEMPTA- 
TION 



HE apple of Eden is the universal 


X emblem of temptation and sin ; but 
the fall of Harlow from a state of comfort- 
able innocence was wrought by a strangely 
different kind of vegetation. His first dip 
into the chapter of human guilt is associated 
with the roadside mullein — the most tropical 
of all the wild flora of Northern fields. 

Its broad plush-like leaves transformed 
the east pasture, in his eyes, into a similitude 
of the tobacco-patch which grew and flour- 
ished in the sunlit silence of poor Crusoe’s 
Island. At times he could almost see the 
stooped figure and the goatskin cap and 
umbrella of the loved solitary moving about 
among the swaying stalks, and scattering 
the wild canaries which feasted in flocks 
upon the tall seed-spikes. 

It was not until Harlow arrived at the 
cow-driving stage of maturity that he met 
with the temptation of the mullein field and 
3 S3 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


first tasted the sweets of secret sin. Up to 
that time he had manfully withstood all the 
allurements of his hardened companions who 
assembled, during the noon hour, behind the 
schoolhouse woodshed and smoked sections 
of dried grapevine, and water-lily stems, 
and “ rattan ” from old umbrellas until their 
tongues were scorched to blistering. 

He had been taught to regard smoking as 
one of the blackest sins in the whole category 
of forbidden pleasures. His convictions 
upon this subject had been formed by reading 
a story in The Young Reaper , his Sunday- 
school paper, which depicted the downward 
course of a nice boy who began to smoke 
grapevine, next inhaled the awful fumes of 
tobacco, thereby creating an appetite for 
strong drink, and finally filled a drunkard’s 
grave. The excitingly moral tale made it 
clear that grapevine-smoking led as inevi- 
tably to a drunkard’s doom as the vine had 
once led to its own root. 

At the time when Harlow was first in- 
formed that he must each evening “ fetch 
the cows,” the most remote and romantic 
region within the compass of his personal 
geographical knowledge was the Back 
Pasture. Of course the school geography 
34 


CRUSOE’S TEMPTATION 


informed him of the existence of Thibet, 
Siberia, and Van Diemen’s Land, but these 
were only names — green and yellow spots 
on the atlas — which entered but vaguely 
into his consciousness. He knew, however, 
that there was such a place as the Back 
Pasture, for he had been there with his 
father on Sunday afternoons, to salt the 
young stock. It was a region of awful 
stillness, which could be reached only by 
passing through the West Woods, descend- 
ing into the gully, and crossing the creek. 

Through the West Woods ! The very 
words made him shiver with dread. No ex- 
plorer of African jungles ever set out upon 
his expedition with half the swelling burden 
of fears which oppressed Harlow as he toiled 
up the lane leading from the lower pasture 
to the butternut grove. The spotted and 
spectral trunks of the beeches in the woods 
beyond, standing out in sharp contrast to 
the dark and sombre hemlocks, formed a 
ghostly gantlet, between the lines of which 
he ran like a guilty fugitive. 

Prostrate and moss-grown trunks of forest 
monarchs, grotesquely torn and mangled by 
the lightning strokes which had felled them, 
added their alarms to the gloomy depths of 
35 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


the woods. More than once the uncanny 
creak of rubbing branches caused him sud- 
denly to pause for a moment, shuddering 
with abject terror, lest he should be pounced 
upon by panthers or other beasts unknown in 
that locality since Hoke Crane killed a gray 
wolf in the Town Line timber a dozen years 
before. 

Owing to the perverse leadership of a 
small red heifer, the drove of cows was 
almost invariably at the extreme end of the 
Back Pasture. Such were a few of the fears 
and tribulations which prepared the ground 
of his sorely beset heart for the seeds of 
temptation. 

His evening pilgrimages through the 
woods had been in progress about a week 
when he chanced to notice within the dusty 
showcase of the general store at The Corners 
a pipe of peculiar pattern. It consisted of a 
reddish clay bowl with a short and slender 
reed stem. There was some deeply buried 
instinct within the boy to which this pipe 
made a powerful appeal. The warning tale 
from The Young Reaper was forgotten, and 
the three cents with which he had purposed 
buying marbles were instantly exchanged 
for the pipe. Had he not that very 
36 





‘‘Chanced to notice a pipe of peculiar pattern. 






























S ' 

< 






CRUSOE’S TEMPTATION 


morning passed Crusoe’s tobacco-field and 
crumbled into fine powder with his palms 
the tip of a big velvety leaf snatched from a 
dead mullein-stalk ? He would soon taste 
the joys of forbidden fruit. 

For the first time he looked forward to 
the lonely trip through the woods with some- 
thing less than an overwhelming dread. As 
he approached his home, after school, he 
caught a glimpse of a blue-checked sun- 
bonnet in the garden, and knew that his 
mother was out weeding the onion bed. 

Stealthily entering the house by the front 
door, he made a quick and successful assault 
upon the tin match-box behind the kitchen 
stove and crammed a quantity of ill- smelling 
“ Lucifers ” into his pocket. Tossing his 
school-books upon the table, he retreated the 
way he had entered. Not until he was out 
of call from the house did he pause. Then 
he entered the mullein-patch. 

From that moment he ceased to be the 
poor, affrighted Harlow. He was Robinson 
Crusoe searching his tobacco-field for a stock 
of choice leaves, which was to stand him on 
along and perilous journey of exploration to 
the remote sections of his island. When his 
pocket was stuffed with the downy mullein 
37 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


until it bulged like a pillow he sped up the 
lane with braver footsteps than had been his 
since he began to follow the erratic leadings 
of the red heifer. 

Under the butternuts he drew from one 
pocket the precious pipe, from the other the 
soft and flannel-like weed wherewith to fill 
the red bowl. A big bowlder stained by the 
cracking of many green nuts, lay at the foot 
of a tree, and upon this he struck a match. 
A squirrel in the branches above scolded 
and chattered at him as he held the sputter- 
ing lucifer until the wood ignited. 

Immortal and guilty moment ! With 
trembling hand he held the match close 
down against the well-packed bowl and 
slowly drew upon the stem, then puffed 
from his pursed lips the first whiff of smoke 
which had ever passed them. There was a 
strange majesty in the tread of the small 
Crusoe as he strode through the woods that 
night. Not once did he run from the creak- 
ing of chafing branches or the rustle of 
leaves. He could not , for he was Robinson 
Crusoe ! He even had the courage — this 
explorer of a desert island — to pause in the 
very deepest shadows of the West Woods, 
refill his pipe, and light it. 

38 


CRUSOE’S TEMPTATION 


When he reached the cows, at the far end 
of the pasture, the wicked red heifer lifted 
high her nose and sniffed the air. This was 
so magnanimous a compliment to the pres- 
ence of his pipe that Harlow almost forgave 
the unruly creature her usual perversity. 
Instead of keeping close to the heels of the 
last cow in the line, as he had invariably 
done before in order to gain a nearer sense 
of companionship, he walked leisurely be- 
hind, as became the dignity of a Crusoe. 
Not once in their course through the woods 
did he start the cows into a brisk trot, pro- 
voking a cheerful clicking of hoofs, crack- 
ling of joints, and swaying of heavy udders. 
He even allowed the drove to loiter, and 
again paused to fill his pipe. As he ap- 
proached the beginning of the lane at the 
top of the hill he remembered that a certain 
bottom rail of the stake-and-rider fence was 
hollow. Into its central cavity he thrust 
the red pipe. 

With that act his identity as the heroic 
Crusoe ceased for the time being, and he 
became again a boy. Then he began to 
fear lest his mother should detect the odor 
of smoke in his breath and guess his guilty 
secret. 


39 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


But she did not. Before he fell asleep 
that night, however, he heard her softly 
open the door at the foot of the stairway. 
He called to her and she came and sat be- 
side him on the edge of the bed. The moon 
shone feebly into the room, but the shadows 
made confession easier, and he told her, 
between sniffles of penitence, the story of 
Robinson Crusoe the Second, and the 
temptation of the mullein-patch. She only 
stroked his forehead and said : 

“ If you get frightened any more in going 
through the woods come and tell me about 
it.” 


THRESHING-FLOOR THEOLOGY 



HE bond of sympathy between Har- 


X low and the hired man was of no 
ordinary kind. At least that flattering sen- 
timent was fondly cherished by the boy. 
This comradeship was the more appreciated 
from the fact that a delightful glamour of 
mystery had surrounded the antecedents of 
Steve Larkins from the moment he had first 
crossed the family threshold. Although few 
sections of the American continent had ever 
been mentioned in the hearing of Steve 
without drawing from him an incidental 
account of his adventures therein, he had 
never condescended to satisfy or dispel the 
general curiosity which the community felt 
with regard to “ the particulars ” of his fam- 
ily connections and the fundamental facts of 
his individual history. 

No wiles of rural diplomacy had ever 
been able to extort from him any serious 
allusion to his intimately personal affairs. 
The vast geographical range and marvellous 


41 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


vivacity of the hired man’s experiences 
made a powerful appeal to Harlow’s pride 
and veneration. To be treated as an equal 
by a man who had fought Indians on the 
plains, who had barely escaped death a score 
of times in terrific tussles with grizzlies in 
the Rockies, who had rescued a stage coach 
from an attack of road agents in the Black 
Hills, and who had escaped from a more 
comprehensive variety of perils than the 
Apostle Paul, was the most satisfying dis- 
tinction of Harlow’s life. 

He regarded the hired man as a compen- 
dium of worldly wisdom, a marvel of human 
experience, and a hero but little lower than 
Robinson Crusoe. And this buccaneer of 
the plains and mountains talked to him in 
the same strain of matter-of-fact familiarity 
that he did to grown-up men — other hired 
hands and the mature sons of the neighbor- 
ing farmers ! 

The flattery of this assumption of equality 
which Steve was pleased to extend to the 
boy made the latter a trusting devotee of 
the hired man. What cared he for the fact 
that the other men of his acquaintance who 
had never been outside the state and pos- 
sibly the county, addressed him as “Bub” 
42 


THEOLOGY 


and “ Sonny ” and seldom spoke to him save 
to demand some trifling menial service ? He 
knew that he was the accepted comrade of 
a hero who had shot men and grizzlies and 
had “ seen the world ! ” 

The deep-seated regard in which Harlow 
held the hired man was unconsciously in- 
creased by the fact that the latter was con- 
sidered by the Christian community as a 
hopeless “ unbeliever.” He had passed un- 
moved through the periodical seasons of 
revival attending the annual week of prayer, 
which made each midwinter a time of relig- 
ious excitement. This obduracy to the work 
of grace had earned for the unyielding Steve 
the suspicions of neighbors and townspeople, 
nearly all of whom were “ professors.” The 
imperilled condition of the hired man’s soul 
had been powerfully impressed upon Harlow 
by a prayer which had been offered by 
Elder Jennings on the occasion of the latter’s 
regular pastoral visit to the farm-house. 

After a dinner of chicken pie, cider cake, 
hot biscuits and honey, and a variety of 
pickles, preserves, and other delicacies, the 
family had solemnly filed into the sitting- 
room and knelt to listen to a prayer for the 
peace, safety, and salvation of each individual 
43 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


member of the household. In the course of 
that petition the preacher had departed from 
his familiar form of after-supper devotions 
by vigorously beseeching that so godly a 
fireside might no longer shed its warmth 
upon one who was “ given over to a hard- 
ened and reprobate heart ! ” This pointed 
reference to the unrepentant Steve invested 
his character with a new interest in the eyes 
of his small admirer. 

While the thought of the awful fate which 
would overtake his hero, should the latter 
“ die in his sins,” cost Harlow many hours 
of painful speculation, often the boy formed 
the resolution to draw Steve into a talk upon 
religious subjects ; but the rollicking good- 
nature and persistent cheerfulness of the 
hired man afforded little opportunity for 
the easy introduction of so serious a topic. 

It was not until a certain rainy Sunday 
when “ Buck ” Bascom, “ Scint ” Totman, 
and Ed Lord took refuge from the shower 
in the big cattle-barn, where they found 
Steve engaged in greasing his boots with 
a huge lump of tallow, that Harlow heard 
the hired man express himself upon matters 
of eternal moment. 

When the three young men raced along 
44 


THEOLOGY 


the wagon track from the bars to the barn 
the boy was sitting at the kitchen window 
wondering why Sundays were so much 
longer than other days and why he should 
not be allowed to break the Sabbath monot- 
ony by reading “ Frank on the Gunboat.” 
He hailed the visitation of the refugees from 
the rain with delight, snatched his every-day 
overcoat from its nail in the woodshed, muf- 
fled it about his head, and made a swift dash 
through the descending torrents to the barn. 
As he entered the main door and joined the 
group upon the threshing-floor he heard Ed 
Lord exclaim : 

“ I may be a mighty poor stick of a 
Christian, but it hain’t for me to say that 
anything is impossible with God. Why, 
the Bible says that all things are possible 
with Him.” 

“ Think that ’s so, do y’u ?” inquired Steve, 
who sat on a milking-stool, his left hand 
buried deep in a boot, the instep of which 
was being rubbed into pliability with his 
right palm. “ Well, I can tell you one thing 
that God can’t do.” 

Harlow waited with a startled interest tb 
hear the limitations which his hero was about 
to place upon the powers of the Infinite. 

45 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“ He can’t make a two-year-old steer in a 
minute ! ” 

“ Steve ’s right about that,” quickly as- 
serted “ Scint ” Totman, who was also a 
hired man, an unbeliever, and who was in- 
clined to philosophic disputations in honor 
of the great Seneca, after whom he had been 
named. “ And there ’s several other things 
that God can’t do. He can’t lie ; He can’t 
conterdic’ Himself, and He can’t make a 
rock so big that He ain’t able to lift it.” 

“ He ’s got you now, Ed,” exclaimed Buck 
Bascom. “You can’t arg’e* ’gainst them 
propositions.” 

“ ’Course God can’t contradict Himself,” 
replied Ed, cutting a spear of timothy with 
the shining blade of his jackknife, “ but there 
ain’t anything reasonable that God can’t do, 
just the same ! ” 

A gradual enlarging of the pupils of 
Steve’s eyes and the tightening of his lips 
warned Harlow that the hired man was 
moved with more serious emotions than he 
had ever before displayed. Could it be that 
he was at last under conviction ? Tossing 
the tallowed boot aside, Steve walked to the 
perpendicular and stationary ladder which 
led to the top of the haymow, picked up a 
46 


THEOLOGY 


long-lashed whip, and began listlessly crack- 
ing it at the milking stool. The cows 
rattled their “ stanchels ” in alarm, but the 
wielder of the whip paid no heed to this 
token of bovine timidity. 

“ If you want to know what I think about 
God, I can tell you ” — and he punctuated 
his sentences with well-aimed cuts of the 
braided lash. “ When I was a youngster I 
heard a sermon on the doctrine of foreord’- 
nation and election. It was a reg’lar rip- 
snorter, and half the congregation was in 
tears. That preacher made out that God 
created folks for the satisfaction of seein’ ’em 
develop moral characters. Them that did n’t 
develop to suit Him He damned to eternal 
torments. But, accordin’ to that preacher, 
God could n’t keep His hands off, but some 
He picked out to be saved an’ some to be 
damned. It seemed to me, from the 
preacher’s description, that God stood by the 
brink of hell and pushed a part of the humans 
He ’d created over into the Pit and the rest 
of ’em He elected to spend eternity in a 
state of bliss. Boy that I was, it did n’t 
look to me like a square deal, and when I 
got home 1 went out behind the barn to 
think it over. The more I thought, the 
47 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


more excited I got — till finally I jumped 
up, shook my fist at the sky, an’ fairly 
yelled : 

44 4 If that ’s the kind of God you are, then 

— then — then I ’ll be damned through all 
eternity ! 5 

44 1 know it must have been a funny sight 

— a boy shakin’ his fist at God an’ declarin’ 
open rebellion. But I tell you I meant it. 
An’ it looks the same way to me now, ex- 
ceptin’ I know God ain’t that kind of a God. 
I tell you He ain’t no cruel monster, like 
the preacher tried to make Him out. If 
He was I ’d hate Him. But He ’s good. 
To my notion He ’s got more goodness than 
anybody on earth knows how to think.” 

Tossing the whip into the corner Steve 
turned quickly to Harlow and said : 

44 Come, son — fetch the pails an’ we ’ll 
have the milkin’ over in a jiffy. Then I ’ll 
whittle you the finest dart that ever sailed.” 

In a moment more the callers left the 
barn and the boy leaned his head against 
the flank of his favorite cow and listened to 
the rhythmic song of the milky streams 
which went purring into the pails with the 
regularity of a pulse-beat. Finally Steve 
began softly to whistle 44 Rosalie, the Prairie 
48 


THEOLOGY 


Flower,” with exquisite trills and variations. 
There was something in the soothing melody 
which assured Harlow that his hero was not 
“ lost,” and that this was not so terrible a 
world after all. 


4 


49 


UNCLE TOMS CABIN 


O NE of the most stupendous strokes of 
good fortune which ever befell Har- 
low came upon him with the abruptness 
that usually characterizes the genuine and 
unmistakable dispensations of the gods. At 
the end of the usual silent breakfast of ham 
and eggs, one June morning, his father said : 

“ I ’ve got an errant for you to do over 
town, before school. Come into the sittin’- 
room as soon ’s you get your chores done 
up.” 

A big panful of cornmeal dough was 
mixed in unusual haste and quickly distrib- 
uted among .the downy, peeping inhabitants 
of a half-dozen chicken-coops, where the un- 
precedented rapidity of the boy’s move- 
ments created no little consternation on the 
part of the matronly hens. Then the lad 
threw the pan and iron spoon into the 
wagon-shed, disappeared into the horse-barn, 
and a moment later dashed out of the door 
upon the back of old Molly, who broke into 
50 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN 


a vigorous canter in the direction of the 
creek, while her rider lashed her sides with 
the halter end and bobbed ungracefully from 
his bareback seat whenever her hoofs struck 
the ground. The mare drank with perverse 
and tantalizing deliberation, but at last the 
morning chores were finished. 

Harlow then stood on tiptoe beside the 
rain barrel, sowsled his head in the soft 
water, made a few deft perpendicular passes 
with his hands over his dripping face and 
then buried the latter in the towel. Per- 
haps it was a faint premonition of the day’s 
importance in his history which moved him 
to give an unnecessarily elaborate touch to 
his morning ablutions. Rolling his trou- 
sers above his knees, he seized the family 
mop-pail, filled it from the rain barrel and 
plunged both feet therein. After he had 
wrought a startling change in the com- 
plexion of his thin calves he entered the 
sitting-room, feeling a quiet and virtuous 
satisfaction from his self-provoked clean- 
liness. 

“Now hustle your stumps! An’ here’s 
a penny,” good-naturedly exclaimed his 
father, after he had carefully pinned the 
letter into the pocket of the boy’s jacket. 

51 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“ You won’t need to be tardy if you move 
right along an’ don’t stop to play.’* 

The journey to the village seemed shorter 
than usual, as his thoughts were occupied 
with the problem of how his penny should 
be spent. He had almost decided in favor 
of a stick of lemon candy, because of its 
superior powers of endurance, when he 
reached the postoffice just as the mail stage 
turned the corner. It had come from the 
morning train and presented the unusual 
spectacle of a passenger with a huge flat 
trunk. 

At a glance Harlow saw that this stranger 
was no ordinary “ drummer,” for he wore a 
shiny silk hat and checkered clothes of mar- 
vellous brilliancy. As the man dismounted 
from his seat the boy quickly entered the 
postoffice and mailed the letter, in order 
that he might be care-free to investigate the 
mission and identity of the stranger — a 
contagious impulse, which quickly emptied 
the chairs in front of the stores and broke 
up a game of quoits alongside the tavern. 
Even the shoemaker’s dog trotted to the 
open door of the hostelry and stood sniffing 
doubtfully, one ragged ear pointed inquir- 
ingly forward. 


52 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN 


When Harlow entered the postoffice of 
the hotel the resplendent stranger was ad- 
dressing the landlord in a loud voice : 

“Yes, sir; fifteen people — and we want 
you to hold the best rooms in the house. 
Then, as you ’ll see by our posters, we have 
a pack of Cuban bloodhounds and a pair of 
donkeys. Without reflecting in the least 
upon your city as an amusement centre, I 
can assure you that Uncle Tom’s Cabin was 
never presented here by such a company as 
that which will show in the hall Saturday 
night. But first I must paper the town, 
and get these handbills thrown.” 

Harlow wondered, for an instant, what 
the showman could mean by the expression, 
“ paper the town ; ” but the mention of 
handbills was thoroughly intelligible and 
thrilled him with a fond and mighty hope. 
So great was his agitation that his powers 
of speech seemed to have deserted him. 
But he was not left without means of ex- 
pressing the yearnings which swelled with- 
in him. The eloquence of staring eyes, 
open mouth, and swaying body still availed 
him. 

“ If it ’s a boy you ’re lookin’ for, to dis- 
tribit them bills,” said the smiling landlord, 

53 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“ they ’s one behind you that ’s jest wigglin’ 
t’ do it.” 

Quickly turning about, the showman 
glanced at Harlow, laughed pleasantly, and 
then inquired : 

“How is it, son? Want to go to the 
show? Well; you peddle these bills out 
to your mates at school and I ’ll give you 
a ticket as soon’s the work’s done.” 

Here was a splendid and significant vic- 
tory over the town boys, who had previously 
captured all such glittering prizes by reason 
of being first on the ground ! Harlow de- 
parted with his precious burden of handbills, 
reaching the schoolhouse just as the last bell 
began to sound its final warning. 

As he was dispensing the dodgers during 
the forenoon recess a proud event transpired. 
The showman himself suddenly appeared, 
laid his hand upon the shoulder of the boy, 
and said : 

“ Well, how is my young assistant ? ” 

Then he took a handbill and wrote upon 
the back of it : 

Pass this hoy. 

John Oliver Pennington, 
Adv. Agt. 


54 


















































' 














































































































































• t . 



































































. 

- 














frequently obliged to turn handsprings 
and somersaults.” 



UNCLE TOMS CABIN 


During those five days of waiting for the 
. dawn of Saturday, Harlow did his chores 
and performed sundry odd jobs about the 
house and yard with an aggressive willing- 
ness which was startling and unprecedented. 
Even the violence of these labors failed to 
chasten his exuberance, and he was fre- 
quently obliged to turn handsprings and 
somersaults in order to keep within the 
limits of civilized conduct. But he had his 
abundant reward in the permission to go to 
the village in time to witness the arrival of 
“the troupe.” 

With a crowd of his playmates he hung 
about the tavern barn and gazed in almost 
speechless wonder at the chained blood- 
hounds until the doors of the town hall 
were opened. Then there was a wild stam- 
pede which landed him in a coveted seat. 
Could the actors have known the transports 
of emotion in which the boy lived in those 
two hours of heavenly ecstasy they might 
have been inspired to reach genuine heights 
of dramatic power. 

Never was comedy so mirthful or tragedy , 
so pathetic ! The nimble drolleries of the 
legal member of the slave-hunting posse 
brought merry outbursts of laughter from 
55 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


the front seat, but each repetition of the 
phrase, “I’m a lawyah an’ my name is 
Ma’ks — shake!” threw Harlow into such 
convulsions that he bent almost double, 
jammed his fists against his stomach and 
swayed gaspingly backward and forward. 

The swiftly changing scenes of the homely 
tragedy swept him irresistibly beyond the 
limits of self-consciousness. His cheeks 
paled and crimsoned with the alternating 
tides of excitement and sentiment. As the 
baying pack of bloodhounds made the lights 
leap and flare and even shook the walls of 
the hall with the fury of their howls, Harlow 
arose from his seat and stood with hands 
clutching his waist front and his breath 
coming in husky snatches. Would Eliza 
reach the other shore of the Ohio before the 
teeth of the dogs tore her in pieces ? The 
relief which overcame Harlow as the hunted 
fugitive leaped from the breaking ice to the 
safety of the Ohio shore was, perhaps, almost 
as keen as that felt by many a slave on 
gaining freedom. 

But the appearance of the dainty, fragile 
Eva brought into the boy’s wondering vision 
the most marvellous and beautiful being he 
had ever beheld. Instinctively he felt that 
56 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN 


so lovely a creature could not remain on 
earth, and the authority with which she ex- 
plained to Uncle Tom the mysteries of the 
Heavenly City to which she was so soon to 
take her flight well-nigh convinced the boy 
that she had already known its glories. 
While his eyes were still swimming with 
tears provoked by the tender dialogue be- 
tween the faithful slave and his little mis- 
tress, the advent of the breezy, rollicking 
Topsy made him again double with laughter. 

The heart-breaking scenes of the slave 
market, the frightful cruelties of old Legree, 
the terrors of the fatal flogging scene, and 
the awful pathos of Uncle Tom’s death in the 
arms of George Shelby seemed to smite 
with master hand every chord of feeling in 
the boy’s being. But the crowning glory 
of the whole, was Uncle Tom’s dying vision 
of his little mistress. To Harlow’s vision 
Eva could not have been more angelic had 
she descended from the open heavens. The 
ghastly glare from the calcium lights was to 
this small and weeping spectator no mun- 
dane scintillation, but a genuine flood of 
celestial glory to light the passing spirits 
of Uncle Tom and Little Eva. 

When the curtain fell and the boy fumbled 
57 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


blindly about for his cap he was still choking 
with sobs and trembling with excitement. 
As he rode to church next morning he stole 
a furtive but searching glance at the new 
graveyard opposite Thompson’s Woods, half 
expecting to see the sexton digging the 
graves of Uncle Tom and the angelic and 
gentle Eva. 


58 


REVOLT OF THE PENITENT 


H ARLOW’S eyes bulged with ingenu- 
ous greed as he watched the shower 
of red cinnamon drops that pattered into the 
scoop of the sugar scales of the counter of 
the grocery. Fifteen cents’ worth ! And 
all of the one kind, and at one time ! What 
delicious prodigality ! 

His heart bounded with pride as the old 
storekeeper pushed up his brass-rimmed 
spectacles in astonishment until they spanned 
his wrinkled forehead, and inquired : 

“ What ’s that, Bub ? Fifteen cents 
wuth ? Does yer pa know you ’re goin’ 
t’ spend that much fer candy?” 

But the glow of vanity that flushed the 
youngster’s tense face faded before Uncle 
John clapped the tin cover over the big 
mouth of the candy jar and replaced it on 
the shelf. 

“ I guess that red-headed city cousin 
must be up from Cincinnaty t’ spend the 
summer, eh ? Did n’t think any boys that 
59 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


b’longed round here had got ’s free with 
money ’s all that ! They say his pa ’s rich 
enough t’ buy out th’ town an’ throw it in 
th’ creek.” 

Instantly the swelling importance with 
which Harlow had entered the store — 
hoping that some of the village boys would 
be present to witness his prodigal expendi- 
ture — subsided. His passing glory had 
been rudely given to another. Bitterness 
and resentment gripped hard at his throat, 
and the flush of shame chased the glow of 
pride in his burning cheeks. Meekly he 
laid the dime and the flve-cent piece upon 
the counter and took up the bag of cinna- 
mons and walked slowly out. For the first 
time the mingled odors of prunes, smoked 
herring, muscovado sugar — the country-store 
smell — failed to charm and tantalize his 
sniffing nostrils. He was in rebellion against 
the established order of things. His heart 
was heavy with self-pity, embittered with 
the gall of its first taste of worldly pessimism. 
For a moment he loitered on the platform 
before the store and pushed his toe into the 
pitch which sizzled up from a knot in the 
pine plank on which he stood. He had been 
cheated of a distinction in the eyes of the 
60 


REVOLT OF THE PENITENT 


village boys, suspected of spending money 
not his own, and twitted of being a fetch- 
and-carry for his city cousin. And that by 
the keeper of the candy jars ! 

A new emotion stirred his blood as he 
plodded past the solemn peaked church — a 
fierce, vindictive passion of resentment. He 
knew it was a wicked feeling — but he did n’t 
care ! He was glad of it ! What if he did 
hate the red-headed city cousin, who brushed 
his hair so smooth, put on clean clothes 
every morning, and could play the piano ? 
Harlow leaned over the low, whittled rail- 
ing that spanned the mill-race bridge, and 
thought how he would like to throw the 
lordly Howard Richard Taylor down where 
the “ pumpkin-seeds ” and “ shiners ” were 
flashing their gleaming sides in the deep 
water. 

Swiftly the burden of his wrongs and in- 
juries gathered volume as he scuffed along the 
cindered path in front of the blacksmith-shop, 
where a sizzling wagon-tire sent up a cloud 
of steam from the tub in which it was dipped 
and turned. He did not pause to scamper 
into the mill and scoop from the brimming 
hopper a handful of plump wheat. A world 
of injustice pressed too heavily upon him. 

61 


THE COUNTRY BOY 

He could even see the city cousin, who was 
waiting for his return in the shade of the 
swing-trees, doling out, with studied exact- 
ness, a stingy pinch of the cinnamons — lis- 
tening to hear the humble “ Thank you ” 
that was expected to follow upon his bene- 
factions. Why had this city boy dimes to 
spend where he himself had only coppers ? 
Why should he trot on the errands of this 
officious interloper, who took the best bed, 
the biggest apples, the ripest blackberries 
and the lion’s share of “ bumble-bee ” honey 
from the nest which he had not the courage 
to break up at the risk of stings and swollen 
cheeks ? But the crowning contempt which 
Harlow held against this opulent city cousin 
was that of shameless terror at the sight of a 
water snake, and a retreat into bed because 
of a stone-bruise. Even his goodness became 
hateful in the meditations of Harlow. The 
lofty superiority with which he had refused 
to smoke the dried lily stems gathered from 
the South Pond, the treachery with which 
the hiding-place of yellow-covered dime 
novels had been betrayed, and the boastful 
tales of the family carriage, of the visits to the 
Zoo, and of having stopped at a hotel where 
board was five dollars a day — all these were 
62 


REVOLT OF THE PENITENT 


reviewed in the rancorous count which the 
bearer of the cinnamon drops cast up against 
the waiting cousin. 

The candy ! He had reached the maples 
in front of the village school when his 
thoughts returned to the starting-point of 
his troubles. How easy it would be to drop 
the bulging paper bag upon the hard-packed 
gravel of the path. And what if it did 
break? He could eat those which spilled 
out. They would be his share ! Some of 
them would be his, anyway, when he reached 
home. Why not let chance settle his por- 
tion of them instead of having them counted 
out to him on the kitchen table by “ Howard 
Richard Tay - lor — Big-headed, Red-headed 
Jail-e r! ” One instant he hesitated. Then 
he opened the bag, sniffed its spicy odors — 
and it fell from his guilty hands to the 
ground. A pang of conscience shot him 
through as he scraped up the heap of red, 
sticky disks that poured from the split in 
the side of the bag. Slowly, one by one, he 
picked the remaining ones from the gravel 
path and wiped his stained and grimy hands 
upon the side of his mannish “ pants.” 

Yes — he would tell them that he dropped 
the bag. And it would be true, too ! Right 
63 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


in front of the second maple, between that 
and “ third base ” — they could go back and 
see for themselves if they didn’t believe 
him. There were three of the cinnamons 
still left in the path. They would know he 
had told the truth when they saw those ! 
How small the bag looked now as he crum- 
pled it in both his hands. If only so many 
had n’t spilled out ! — but anyway he had 
made it up that those were to be his share, 
and he never went back on what he had 
made up with himself. 

Wretchedly, with sullen, dogged loiter- 
ings he made his way homeward. Every 
chippy-bird that chirped from the dusty 
roadbed, every chipmunk that raced his 
striped, saucy self along the top rail, accused 
him. 

At the home bars he halted in a panic of 
terror. He could face the cousin — but the 
quiet, searching eyes of his mother ! Al- 
most he decided to flee to the West Woods. 
He would become a hermit and live in the 
old sugar camp ! But, before he could put 
his daring resolution into action, the city 
cousin, from the shade of the swing-trees, 
called out: 

“ Harlow, did you remember the candy ? ” 
64 


REVOLT OF THE PENITENT 

Pale, big-eyed, with hangdog countenance, 
Harlow pushed silently past his questioner 
into the kitchen, placed the bag on the 
table, and slunk down upon the door-step. 

“ What is the matter, Harlow ? ” came 
the quiet, anxious question as his mother 
looked at his white cheeks. There was no 
escape from that voice, those eyes ! 

“ I dropped it,” he blurted ; “ in front of 
the schoolhouse — by the maple — the sec- 
ond one, close by third base. I scraped up 
some — you can look for yourself. He can 
if he wants to ! ” 

“ Come into the bedroom ! ” commanded 
the quiet voice. 

“ Fifteen cents’ worth ! ” sneered Howard 
Richard Taylor, holding up the crumpled 
bag. “ Dropped it ! You look it ! ” 

Harlow turned his head about as he was 
led forward into the inquisitorial bedroom, 
and screwed his face into a grimace. 

When he emerged he was led in front of 
the waiting accuser. His breast shook and 
heaved, and tears traced their muddy 
courses down his dust-browned cheeks. 

“ Harlow has been exceedingly wicked, 
Howard,” said the maternal voice. “He 
has told a lie. He dropped the bag on pur- 
5 65 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


pose, so he could take the candy. He is 
very sorry, and begs your forgiveness ! ” 

Howard Richard Taylor drew a long 
breath — a deliberate, judicial inspiration. 
He was about to dispense pardon. 

“ Yes, auntie, I forgive him. I ’m sorry 
he ’s getting wild, but I shall try to exert a 
good influence over him.” 

“ Now, go out to the swing, Harlow,” said 
the mother of the penitent, “ and meditate 
on what I told you in the bedroom. Re- 
member, you are not to get out, or play 
or talk or whistle — not until I call 
supper.” 

He was scuffing his calloused feet upon 
the bare-worn ground beneath the swing, let- 
ting the “ old cat die,” guessing what time it 
was, and remembering the story of Ananias 
which his mother had read to him in the 
bedroom — wondering if she would tell his 
Sunday-school teacher, or if Howard Rich- 
ard Taylor would tattle to the boys — when 
he heard the voice of the city cousin sweetly 
asking : 

“ Auntie, would you mind having Harlow 
sit in the bedroom or on the grass ? Don’t 
you think he would think better and be 
more penitent there than in the swing?” 

66 


REVOLT OF THE PENITENT 


“No,” was the quick answer; “he will 
stay where I told him.” 

Harlow could hear his father dipping the 
wash-basin in the rain barrel at the back 
of the woodshed as Howard Richard seated 
himself at the foot of the swing-tree and 
solemnly remarked : 

“ I think liars and thieves are awful sin- 
ners. The Bible says so. My mother would 
be heart-broken if she had a son that did 
such things. I guess she ’d be so humiliated 
that she ’d want to give up her church and 
social connections. I forgive you, Harlow 
— but this ought to be a dreadful lesson to 
you. It should make you very humble — ” 
The swing darted backward and its occu- 
pant fell upon the orator with a swiftness 
that sent a bluejay squawking in alarm from 
the tip of the neighboring balsam. Dust, 
wails, and sturdy strokes marked the prog- 
ress of the combat. The penitent had 
risen in revolt. In the doorway of the 
kitchen stood the tall form of Harlow’s 
father, a peculiar light in his eye. His 
arm formed a bar against which the excited 
mother was struggling in vain, calling : 
“ Harlow ! Oh, Harlow ! ” 

When the dust cleared away the trium- 
67 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


phant penitent was seen sitting astride the 
prostrate orator, and he was heard to 
inquire : 

“ ’Nough ? Goin’ t’ lemme ’lone an’ quit 
yer blowin’ ’bout Cincinnaty ’n’ things ? ” 

<fi Yes, Cousin Harlow,” came the smoth- 
ered reply. 

“ Then git up an’ dust ! ” 

“ You can use my shot-gun all day 
to-morrow,” humbly volunteered the van- 
quished Howard Richard Taylor. 


68 


THE SUMMER MOTHER WENT 
EAST 



HE summer when mother went east ” 


was the cardinal epoch in the chro- 


nology of Harlow’s life, separating its events 
into two grand divisions. It was the cen- 
tral thread about which the phraseology of 
family history crystallized. Whatever tran- 
spired in the community or the home was 
given its place in the procession of years by 
reference to the relation which it sustained 
to that memorable eastern pilgrimage. All 
experiences happened before, after, or within 
“ t the year mother went east.” 

The first foreshadowing of this mighty 
domestic episode, so far as Harlow’s knowl- 
edge was concerned, came in the form of a 
letter from Whallonsburg which he himself 
brought from the postoffice. It was en- 
closed in a yellow government envelope, 
the address of which displayed a tendency 
to march toward the oval stamp in the upper 
right-hand corner. The embossing of the 


69 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


stamp, the humpbacked capital letters of 
the writing, and the unhealthy, jaundiced 
hue of the envelope made an unfavorable 
impression upon the boy, and aroused a po- 
tential suspicion against the tidings which it 
contained. 

So rare an event as a letter from “ Th’ 
Burg” was not to be passed over without 
protracted discussion in open council at the 
supper table ; and when this ill-omened 
epistle was dignified by the emphasis of 
silence at the family board the boy needed 
no further confirmation of its importance. 
As he went up to his bed that night he left 
the door at the foot of the stairs ajar and 
listened. Soon he heard his father take the 
bootjack from its peg, place it upon the floor 
and thump the heel of a heavy boot into its 
well-worn jaws. A moment later the rhyth- 
mic squeak of his mother’s rocking-chair 
became audible. 

By these tokens Harlow knew that each 
parent was waiting for the other to propose 
the topic which was mutually in mind, and 
he was not surprised that several moments 
passed before a word was spoken. He was 
conscious of something weariedly pathetic 
in the tone of his mother’s voice as she said : 

70 


MOTHER WENT EAST 


4 4 1 know we can’t afford it, but — ” 

In a vague, intuitive way the boy under- 
stood the depth of longing expressed in that 
small word 44 but,” and doubtless the father 
also caught the pathos of the unfinished sen- 
tence, for he replied : 

44 You hain’t been back to the old place, 
Mary, since we was married ; I never thought, 
then, it would be so long.” 

This was the tenderest conversation be- 
tween his father and mother that Harlow 
had ever overheard, and he raised himself 
upon his elbow to catch more of it. His 
movements caused the cords of the bed to 
creak, and a moment later he heard his 
mother cross the sitting-room and softly 
close the stairway door. 

Then he turned over and through the 
open window watched the shivering mass 
of shadows which the bright moonlight, 
shining through podded branches of the 
locust, cast upon the sloping roof of the 
44 L.” This silent but ceaseless play of frag- 
mentary darkness upon the silvered back- 
ground of gray, weather-worn shingles 
started a train of fantastic thoughts, which 
charmed him from unhappy contemplations 
of the impending separation, and he was 
71 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


soon deep in wholesome and untroubled 
slumber. 

When he awakened in the morning he 
had a dim recollection that, in the midnight 
watches, he had been partially aroused by 
feeling that some person was in the room 
and looking intently down upon him. Still 
more faint was the remembrance that his 
mother had stood at his bedside, stooped 
above him, and kissed his cheek. He would 
have dismissed this impression as a part of 
his dreams were it not that the shadowy 
picture which lingered persistently in his 
memory showed a bright swath of moon- 
light glinting like a halo across the smooth 
surface of her soft brown hair. 

It also seemed to him that he had noticed 
the yellowish blotches which overspread her 
forehead and temple. But as he could not 
recall the time when his mother had kissed 
him he found it difficult to believe that she 
had been moved to so extraordinary a 
demonstration of her affection, even though 
it were secretly bestowed. 

The official announcement of his mothers 
impending departure came to Harlow from 
his father, who said, as the family arose from 
the breakfast table : 


72 


MOTHER WENT EAST 


“ Ma ’s goin’ to take a trip to Th’ Burg 
next week, an it ’s settled that if you re a 
good boy you can go to Fredony an’ see her 
off on the cars. An mebby we ’ll get your 
picture took in the bargain, if you don’t 
snivel an’ make a fuss.” 

This suggestion was sufficient to swell his 
throat with an aching ball of grief, and as 
he retreated in the direction of the butter- 
nut grove his mother caught the sound of a 
boyish “ sniffle.” Harlow was no more able 
to picture the home without the presence of 
his mother than to imagine the kitchen 
without the big old iron sink, beside which 
they had “ done ” the dishes ever since he 
was old enough to assist her. The fact that 
she would soon be hundreds of miles away 
and he would not see her bending over the 
washtub, the ironing-table, the bread board, 
and the cook stove was as incomprehensible 
to him as it was impossible to imagine the 
miraculous and unaided removal of every 
familiar object which the walls of the house 
contained. 

This inability to grasp the reality of her 
prospective absence, together with the con- 
templation of the glittering rewards which 
were held before him as prizes to induce 
78 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


quiet resignation to the inevitable, com- 
forted him until the day of her departure 
drew near. He also practised a simple 
method of self-deception by which he al- 
most made himself believe that, although 
his mother would be at Whallonsburg, she 
would, at the same time, be moving in her 
usual quiet way about the house and garden, 
and would not fail to answer his querulous 
calls of “ Ma ! M-a!” 

Not until the old leather trunk, with its 
battered brass-rivet heads, was brought down 
from the garret and the process of packing 
actually begun, did Harlow realize that his 
first long separation from his mother was 
close at hand. He hung about the scene 
of these final preparations, held by an almost 
tragic fascination. 

Every neatly folded garment that was 
laid away in the old trunk added to the 
tearful pressure that was swelling within 
him, yet he could not quit the place of these 
sad activities and go about his solitary play. 
But, as his mother took from the clothes-press 
her new black silk dress, folded it lightly 
and then tucked it into the trunk, he re- 
treated abruptly to the orchard in the west 
meadow. An hour later he returned with 
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“He hung about the scene of these final preparations, 












MOTHER WENT EAST 


a bunch of sweet clover in his hand, stole 
into his mothers room, lifted the lid of the 
trunk, and secretly pushed the fragrant herb 
between the stiff folds of the black silk. He 
knew that she always kept a withered sprig 
of the sweet-smelling weed in the bureau 
drawer and that she would be glad to be 
greeted by its wild aroma when she opened 
the trunk to unpack at her destination — 
and she might guess who placed it there ! 

He who has not felt the world slip away 
from him amid a din of hissing steam, clat- 
tering baggage-trucks and the clanging of a 
locomotive-bell knows not the sickening 
sensations of the boy as he stood forlornly 
on the depot platform and watched the last 
trembling gestures of the black-mitted hand 
which protruded from the window of the 
receding train. The awfulness of orphan- 
hood swept back upon him with every wave 
of that projecting hand, and he sobbed 
out his grief with delicious and shameless 
abandon. 

As his father took him to the restaurant 
his breast still heaved and quivered sus- 
piciously, but the novelty of the scene and 
the fragrance of the fresh-baked “ rusks ” 
soothed his sorrows, and lie ate as heartily as 
75 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


he had cried. The last fact of which he was 
sensible in the long moon-lit journey home- 
ward was that of passing through a streak of 
hot air in the hollow, near the watering- 
trough. Then his head leaned heavily 
against his father’s arm and he slept the 
sweet sleep of exhaustion. 

When he awakened he was in his own bed, 
a robin was singing in the locusts, and he 
remembered that he was to accompany his 
father and Steve to Bear Lake for a whole 
day’s fishing. 


76 


THE NEW TEACHER 


F OR the moment, and within her field, 
the “ new teacher ” of a country 
school is the most important personage on 
earth. At least such was Harlow’s experi- 
ence. If any ruling queen were to abdicate 
her throne and appoint from the noble 
women of her court the future sovereign of 
her people, the new monarch could not in- 
spire in her subjects an interest to be com- 
pared in its intensity to that of Harlow and 
his companions as they waited about the 
schoolhouse steps for the arrival of the new 
teacher. 

An element of delicious uncertainty en- 
tered into their speculations concerning her 
personality. Had they known, for a surety, 
that her face would prove to be as sweet and 
gentle as that of Faith clinging to the wave- 
washed cross, in the frontispiece of the fam- 
ily Bible, they could not have looked down 
the road with half so keen an expectancy. 
Such a certainty would have removed the 
77 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


chance that this coming monitor of their 
destinies might be a woman strangely differ- 
ent in kind from any they had before known 
— so very different that they could not even 
dream how she would look as she took her 
place behind the familiar desk and called for 
the names of the pupils with which to fill 
out her “ roster ” for the trustees. 

The very knowledge that any face which 
his fancy might delineate must, of necessity, 
be far from a likeness to the actual counte- 
nance of the new teacher was in itself the 
source of a certain keen, speculative joy to 
Harlow. It gave him that unfailing human 
pleasure of striving after the unattainable. 

The spirit of newness was in the air. Po- 
tential surprises lurked in every prospective 
hour of that First Hay. Not only was the 
teacher new, but there were new faces 
among the pupils, new books to be studied, 
new seats to be chosen, new companionships 
to be established on the playground, new 
rivalries to be set up, and new friendships to 
be formed. 

Harlow was proudly conscious that his 
winter’s growth of tawny hair had been 
“ shingled ” until the depression between the 
two cords at the back of his neck was as 
78 


THE NEW TEACHER 


conspicuous as his protruding ears and his 
shapeless expanse of bare feet. He was 
clothed in the newness of butternut brown 
waist and “ pants,” which had that morning 
been ironed to a metallic stiffness ; and a 
speckled palm-leaf hat which his mother had 
bound about the edge with blue cambric, 
made its virgin appearance upon his glisten- 
ing head. 

Many of his playmates, particularly the 
girls, were resplendent in fresh raiment far 
more elaborate than his own, but even that 
did not alter his proud consciousness that 
he was a partaker in the things that day dis- 
played to the world for the first time. The 
bright disks of the dandelions in the grass, 
the fresh foliage of the trees and the bou- 
quets of flowers in the hands of the girls, 
all emphasized, with the powerful under- 
tone of nature, Harlow’s impression that all 
things were made new and that it was a 
day of great and sweet beginnings. Even 
the faces of his schoolmates seemed touched 
with all-powerful freshness. 

But the focal point of all his expectancy 
was the new teacher. And she was com- 
ing up the road with Phoebe Hogeboom ! 
In a few moments she would actually stand 
79 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


before them and the mystery of her person- 
ality would be forever solved ! As the news 
of her approach passed from lip to lip the 
girls gathered in excited little groups, and 
those who had brought bouquets ran inside 
the schoolroom, fluttered about the desk, 
and finally succeeded in arranging the floral 
tributes in patent-medicine bottles, tumblers, 
and broken-nosed pitchers. 

For some whimsical reason Harlow wished 
to gain his first impression of the new 
teacher as she stood behind her desk ; con- 
sequently he left the groups which ran to 
welcome her at the cedar posts which 
guarded the entrance of the schoolyard, nor 
did he join the more bashful ones loitering 
about the front steps in attitudes of assumed 
indifference. Instead he went into the “ en- 
try,” placed his dinner-pail upon the window- 
sill, tossed his straw hat upon one of the 
highest hooks, and then took his position at 
one of the rear benches to await the great 
moment. 

The heavy, honeyed odor that exuded 
from the purple lilacs on the desk penetrated 
to the remotest corner of the room and 
almost overpowered the fainter perfume of 
the violets, the mayflowers, the crab-apple 
80 


THE NEW TEACHER 


blossoms and the other wild blossoms gath- 
ered from wood and roadside. The cloying 
sweetness of the smell seemed indescribably 
delicious to the boy, and gave him a subtle 
assurance that the face of the new teacher 
would, in some rare and strange way, yield 
a fitting and harmonious response to the 
beauty and the perfume of the flowers. In 
that waiting moment he wished that he had 
dared to bring — at the peril of being laughed 
at by the boys — some of the drooping plumes 
of bloom which weighed down the old lilac- 
bush at the corner of the upright, in the 
front yard at home. 

A sudden clatter of feet in the entry, 
followed by a significant hush of voices, 
instantly banished his regretful musings and 
he looked up into the smiling face of a tall, 
slender woman, to whose hands and skirts a 
half-dozen of the smaller girls were clinging. 
For once in his life Harlow found his fond- 
est dreams outstripped by the reality. That 
moment gave him an ideal by which to 
measure all womanhood — a standard of 
feminine loveliness with which all women 
were subjected to a hopeless comparison. 

The angelic beings of the steel engravings 
in the family Bible were instantly dethroned 
6 81 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


in his imagination by the human vision 
before him — nor did the pictorial ideals ever 
regain their old place ! He realized that the 
new teacher had come from a world re- 
mote from his own. Even the soft gray 
dress which she wore, the grace of her move- 
ments, and the unconscious queenliness with 
which she held her head erect told him this. 
A single jonquil showed its yellow star in the 
black coils of her hair, a wayward strand of 
which coiled carelessly down over the blue- 
veined whiteness of her left temple. Sparkles 
of laughter seemed to lurk in the depths of 
her long-lashed eyes, and the corners of her 
mouth had deep and witching indentures 
emphasized by the brooding smile which 
hovered perpetually about her curving lips. 

But the stroke which welded forever the 
chains of the boy’s idolatry of the new 
teacher was the sound of her voice as it led 
the school in morning song. With waver- 
ing uncertainty the scholars began the pro- 
phetic, swinging measure of — 

“When the birds shall return, Nellie Wildwood, 

From the Northland to sing round my home.” 

He had heard the song many times before, 
but it was suddenly transformed by the 
82 


THE NEW TEACHER 


depth and sweetness of the voice which 
came from the open lips of the new 
teacher as she stood erect behind the hedge 
of flowers on her desk. Harlow was sure 
that he had met his first love, and for months 
he worshipped silently at her shrine with an 
abject devotion — but she knew it not. 

Later the days came in which she often 
looked longingly out of the east window — 
and looked so steadfastly that he saw a mist 
of tears clouding the brightness of her eyes. 
One night he forgot his spelling-book, re- 
turned for it, and found her head buried in 
her arm upon her desk. His first impulse 
was to flee, but he could not. Stealing softly 
to her side he laid his hand upon her arm. 
She startled nervously, looked through her 
tears into his wet eyes, encircled his waist 
with her arm and said : 

“ What is it, dear ? ” 

“ I ’m — I ’m — s-sorry for you,” he sobbed. 
She drew him close against her and again 
her head dropped upon her arm. He could 
feel her breast shaking with sobs, but she 
did not let him go. An hour later she 
walked ’cross-lots, over the fields and through 
Thompson’s Woods with him and kissed him 
good-by at his own gate. He wondered why 
83 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


she did not tell him the cause of her grief, 
but his heart was swelling with a great 
and inexpressible joy, and he wondered if 
Heaven could hold a sweeter happiness than 
he had tasted in that hour ! 


84 


THE NEEDLES EYE 


N OT long after he had abandoned the 
spoon as an instrument for conveying 
food from his plate to his mouth, Harlow 
became the victim of an absorbing and loverly 
sentimentality. But it was not his fault. 
That he was prematurely forced into the 
role of Romeo at a stage of juvenile im- 
maturity, and compelled to act the lover 
before he had formed any definite ideas of 
what constitutes a satisfactory suitor or the 
line of conduct most becoming to such an 
ardent personage, was due to the affectional 
precocity and maidenly perseverance of a 
certain small, witching, and vivacious young 
miss. 

To those who are wise in the affairs of the 
heart may be left the explanation of the fact 
that childhood in the city enjoys a much 
longer period of immunity from the attacks 
of the Sly Archer than in the country, 
where the embryo woman in short dresses 
85 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


is a shameless coquette at a time when the 
boy of her own years regards her as a petty 
nuisance, if he so much as recognizes her 
existence. But of this fact there can be no 
question. 

It was, therefore, while he was still “ afraid 
of the dark ” that Harlow became the object 
of a tender conspiracy and received a gratui- 
tous and almost compulsory initiation into the 
mysteries and vicissitudes of rural courtship. 
It is true that, during this probationary 
stage of his training in the arts of love- 
making, he steadfastly regarded the new 
teacher as the supreme mistress of his heart, 
brought to her the biggest and rosiest apples 
that the gnarled old 4 4 maiden-blush ” trees 
in the west orchard yielded, searched the 
pasture for the lustiest violets, that they 
might be timidly laid upon her desk, and 
would have spurned the thought that the 
time might come when he would cease to 
pay her his fondest adorations. But, by 
grace of some strange law of perversity, he 
suffered no rebukes of conscience on this 
score, nor was he aware of any duplicity of 
conduct as he progressed from indifference 
and stupidity to becoming ardor under the 
skilful tutelage of his small preceptor. 

86 


THE NEEDLE’S EYE 


It was while the springtime stirrings of 
sentiment were still warm and throbbing 
in the hearts of swelling buds that Harlow 
was impressed into the ranks of the world’s 
lovers. The day itself impelled to an 
awakening of dormant faculties. Its blos- 
som-scented breath, its broad, shimmering 
sunlight, and its subtle atmospheric sug- 
gestion of awaking life touched every ani- 
mate object into lively sympathy with its 
own quickened and sensitive but dream- 
laden spirit. The irresistible revival of 
Romance was in the air. 

On his way to school that morning, Har- 
low noticed that the calves in Thompson’s 
pasture were frisking about in a series of 
grotesque and ungainly gambols, and that 
the swarms of butterflies which scurried up 
from the glossy, chocolate-hued margin of 
the drying mud-puddle in the centre of the 
road, flashed their yellow wings with un- 
wonted animation and were dancing, with 
taunting and airy abandon, far over the 
pasture fence, before he could strike one of 
them down with his palm-leaf hat. 

Even Totman’s spavined and superannu- 
ated old gray horse, which grazed and hob- 
bled along the public highway, paid tribute 
87 


THE COUNTRY ROY 


to the rare and energizing qualities of the 
day by striking into a lively shamble in 
response to the passing shout of Harlow. 

Lessons were an intrusion and an irrita- 
tion, and the suppressed activities of the 
feminine contingent of the school vented 
themselves in a running fire of girlish gig- 
gles, while a fusillade of well-masticated 
paper wads filled the air from the boys’ side 
of the room whenever the teacher turned to 
explain the examples on the blackboard for 
the benefit of the “ B ” arithmetic class. 
An epidemic of thirst seized the entire 
school, and before first recess the water- 
pail in the front entry had been visited by 
the majority of the pupils. Restlessness 
was the prevailing mood and a score of per- 
sistently raised hands and snapping fingers 
were patiently answered by the new teacher, 
only to provoke the monotonous and plain- 
tive repetition of the appeal : “ Teacher, 
please m’ I go ’n sit with — ?” and the 
question was invariably interrupted with an 
affirmative answer. 

By the time the school marched out, in 
single file, for the noon hour, the under- 
standing had become general that all the 
pupils who were not obliged to return to 
88 


THE NEEDLES EYE 


their homes for dinner should take their 
lunch pails and repair to Thompson’s W oods, 
the scene of immemorial Sunday-school 
picnics and Fourth of July celebrations, there 
to spend the mid-day intermission in frolics 
about the weather-beaten and gaping lemon- 
ade booths, in games upon the smooth, green 
turf of the more open spaces, and in rambles 
after violets, ground-nuts, and crinkle-root, 
where the trees were huge and moss-grown 
and the thick carpet of dead leaves underfoot 
was but sparingly sprinkled with tiny glints 
of sunlight. 

The journey across Reinhart’s meadow 
was with a gleeful rush, and Harlow soon 
seated himself tentatively upon the edge of 
one of the picnic benches, drew the refractory 
cover from his dinner-pail and took from 
within a warped and heated rectangle of 
bread, which exuded a heavy buttery fra- 
grance never to be forgotten by the boy 
who has “carried” his dinner. He broke 
the double layer of bread into two sections, 
ate out the softer interior of the piece in his 
right hand, and was about to throw away the 
skeleton of crust when the girl with the two 
long braids abruptly sat down beside him 
and said : 


89 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“ Oh, gimme a bite ! I did n’t bring any 
dinner to-day and 1 ’m awful hungry.” 

He handed her the broken pieces of bread 
in his left hand ; his face flushed and his 
powers of speech became temporarily para- 
lyzed. 

“ Say,” she continued, “ I ’m going to 
start the Needle’s Eye. That big bare spot 
over there ’s just the place for it. Come on 
— let ’s ! ” 

And without waiting for a reply she seized 
his hand and led him helplessly into the tree- 
less open, where they stood facing each other 
with hands joined and arms uplifted. Their 
mates, by clasping hands, quickly formed 
into a ring, which was designed to rotate 
between the girl with long braids and Har- 
low, passing beneath the arch formed by 
their upstretched arms. 

With hands swaying and feet shuffling, 
the waiting circle began the chant : 

“ With bow so neat 
And kiss so sweet ; 

We do intend, before we end. 

This happy pair shall meet again ! ” 

Full well Harlow knew that he was ex- 
pected to express in actions the graceful 
90 




























I 




I 





















































I 




















The circle started forward 





THE NEEDLE S EYE 


insinuations of the refrain. He nodded his 
head with a stiff jerk at the cue of the “ bow 
so neat,” but at that moment he caught the 
eye of a grinning companion, and his courage 
for the remainder of the ceremony deserted 
him. There was an awkward and expectant 
pause in the chant. Had it continued long 
he would have turned and fled. But it did 
not. His partner gave her long braids a 
quick, coquettish shake, leaned saucily for- 
ward and exclaimed : 

“ Kiss me — you little ninny ! ” 

He obeyed and the circle started forward, 
winding under the archway of arms and 
singing : 

“ The needle’s eye 
That doth supply 
The thread that runs so truly ; 

O ! many a lass have I let pass 
Because I wanted you-ly ! ” 

At the end of the last syllable she pulled 
his hands down upon the neck of the Solemn 
Girl. This captive took the place of the 
initiator of the game, and the ceremony was 
repeated until the clang of the first bell 
warned the merry-makers to return to the 
schoolhouse. 


91 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


The crimson circles still glowed in his 
cheeks long after he had taken his seat. He 
dared not lift his eyes from his book to look 
in the direction of the girls’ side. 

The realization of his stupidity was strong 
upon him, and he wondered if she would 
ever speak to him again. His doubts, how- 
ever, were of short duration. When he 
returned from the geography recitation he 
found upon his desk a minutely folded piece 
of paper. It was laboriously unfolded, and 
he then read this assuring message : 

“ If you love me as i Love you 
No knife can Cut our love in To.” 

After school, that night, the girl did not 
go “ ’ cross-lots ” to her home, as usual. In- 
stead she chose a longer way by the road — 
and Harlow walked meekly and awkwardly 
by her side. 


92 


DAY-DREAMS UNDER THE 
BUTTERNUTS 


D AYS of acute and exultant joyousness, 
unmarred by obtrusive incidents, made 
their bright and ineffaceable impress upon 
the calendar of Harlow’s experience. He 
was often fiercely happy without an ap- 
parent cause. These periods of exaltation 
came with the swift and subtle unexpected- 
ness of a dream, and, like the visions of his 
sleeping hours, liberated him from the petty 
and cumbering limitations of material sense 
and law. So completely disassociated from 
every visible cause were those emotional 
transports that they thrilled him with a 
vague and unaccountable awe. He felt 
himself in the thrall of some mysterious 
force which defied all his childish attempts 
at analysis. It did not occur to him that 
the climatic conditions of the day had any 
influence in these strange moods of irre- 
pressible elation. He only knew that he 
was filled with a wild, unreasoning happi- 
93 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


ness, which had no dependence upon any- 
thing held in pleasurable remembrance or 
anticipation. 

When the spell of these transfiguration 
days was upon him the sky no longer seemed 
a huge cover pressing downward upon the 
imprisoned earth. Instead, the movement 
of all things was upward. The spirit of 
ascendency was in the air. It quickened 
the white-flecked wings of the fish-hawk 
which hovered, in spiral flight, over Miller’s 
pond, and it exalted the blue hills of Busti 
into the splendor of a mountain range. The 
familiar haystacks in the south meadow, seen 
through the shimmer of the midsummer 
heat, became, to his dream-touched eyes, 
the thatched huts of a strange and savage 
people, — natives of the South Sea Islands, 
whose faces and habitations were pictu- 
resquely set forth in school geography. 

Each commonplace object, from the clods 
beneath his bare feet to the horizon line, 
fell under the transfiguring spell of his 
own idealizing vision and took on a new 
and glorified identity. But these hours of 
ecstasy were not without their inevitable 
admixture of pain, in that he could not hope 
to share them with another — not even with 
94 


DAY-DREAMS 

his mother or the new teacher. He felt, 
with a hopeless intuition, that he could not 
make them understand. This conviction 
sealed his lips and left him to his own soli- 
tary speculations. In secret he enjoyed, 
dreamed, and exulted, moving in a mysteri- 
ous world of imagination all his own and 
wholly unsuspected by those about him. 

These occasions of high inspiration came 
most frequently to Harlow during lonely 
rambles about the fields and woods, when no 
distracting human presence cast its blight 
upon the free and unconscious action of his 
fancy. In such moments he lived a thou- 
sand romances and achieved a hero’s laurels 
with greater versatility and frequency than 
the 44 Gunmaker of Moscow.” These day- 
dreams gradually assumed a serial character 
and were resumed and elaborated, from time 
to time, whenever the spirit of prophecy was 
upon him. 

The heroines who were delivered by his 
humble hands from every form of distress 
and misfortune were generally his mother, 
the new teacher, and the girl with the 
long braids whom he had been compelled 
to kiss in Thompson’s Woods when playing 
44 The Needle’s Eye.” 

95 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


Occasionally, however, he drew upon a 
numerous and attractive line of girl cousins 
for his heroines. His favorite place for 
inspiration was the Butternut Grove at the 
top of the hill, where, with the W est W oods 
at his back, he could look down the slope of 
the sunlit meadow upon the old house, the 
steeple-like balsams in front, and the tops of 
locusts just above the roof. Simply to exist 
under the spell of so much brightness gave 
him a sense of joyful expansion. The whole 
landscape seemed suddenly to have grown 
vast and beautiful, where before it was 
shrivelled and mean. 

But the chief delight of this enlarged 
vision was the sympathetic dilation which 
swelled his own being and sent the blood 
pounding through his heart and made crim- 
son circles glow in his thin cheeks. Stretched 
at full length upon his back, he gazed up- 
ward into the serene and mighty vastness 
of the summer sky and wondered how far 
above the fleecy heaps of clouds, which here 
and there flecked the blue depths, was 
Heaven. 

If the shifting clouds were only made of 
smoke, as his mother had once told him, and 
held the rain, how could they bear up the 
96 


DAY-DREAMS 


Heavenly City with its weight of golden 
streets, of blessed mansions, and of the 
throne of God? To the boy they seemed 
very soft and unstable for so mighty a task. 
He wondered, too, if he were to shoot a rifle- 
ball into the bottom of the biggest cloud 
would the water pour forth and flood the 
earth ? 

But the most stupendous problem which 
the unfathomable sky propounded to the 
boy was the Resurrection Scene. This en- 
gaged his moments of highest exaltation and 
wonder. In vain and varied flights of imag- 
ination he attempted to picture the sublime 
and awful spectacle that would some time 
take place when the last trump should sound, 
the graves give up their dead, and all be 
changed “ in the twinkling of an eye.” This 
scriptural phrase stuck in his thought and 
he unconsciously indulged in experimental 
winks of his long-lashed eyes in order to 
gain a more vivid realization of the sudden- 
ness with which the awful transformation 
would break upon the startled and terrified 
inhabitants of earth. 

Sometimes, after gazing long and intently 
into the upper spaces, he would shut his eyes 
tightly, and for an instant the dim and shape- 
7 97 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


less blotches of light would intensify into 
angelic forms, only to fade as swiftly as they 
had appeared. There was, at best, however, 
an unsatisfying vagueness and confusion in 
these fleeting and imaginary glimpses of the 
descent of the heavenly hosts. 

Then he indulged in speculations as to 
whether he would be living when the Last 
Day should come — and if so, where would 
he be and what would he be doing ? Would 
the dread and sublime moment fall in clear 
daylight or in the darkness of night ? If the 
latter, he knew that he would run to his 
mother’s bed and that she would soothe and 
comfort him as she did when the crashes of 
thunder awakened him at night and he fled 
down the stairs, groping his way through the 
sitting-room by the glare of the lightning 
flashes. The thought of the terrible fate 
of the wicked in that last and fearful hour 
gave him a passing heart-thrust of pity, but 
in such moments he was glad that he 
was a good boy and that his mother was a 
Christian. 

A swift recoil to the simple things of earth 
usually followed these serious Miltonian day- 
dreams, and the thoughts of the boy leaped 
from wrestlings with the problems of eternity 
98 


DAY-DREAMS 

to prophetic forecasts of his own career. 
There were two points in which these 
romances always agreed, no matter how 
diversified were their other incidents. He 
invariably saw himself taking a pathetic and 
solitary leave of the old homestead and 
going out into the world as a living example 
of abject but courageous humility. These 
farewell pictures generally included a touch- 
ing scene under the tall willow hedge which 
divided the calf pasture from the garden at 
the home of the little girl with the long 
braids ; but sometimes the object of his part- 
ing adorations was the new teacher, whom 
the romancer viewed as standing upon the 
front steps of the schoolhouse and weeping 
as she saw him cross the bridge and disappear 
down the road to the Corners — “perhaps 
never to return ! ” 

The boy of Harlow’s imagination was 
never sent forth upon these pathetic pilgrim- 
ages without one abiding consolation — he 
knew that his name had been cut deep into 
the desk which he had occupied at school, and 
that it would be there to receive the venerat- 
ing glances of his schoolmates and the aged 
townspeople when he had made the land 
ring with his fame ! The knife-scarred desk 
99 


' L.of C. 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


was also a necessary factor in the denoue- 
ment of these unspoken epics, for the hero 
invariably returned and made a solitary visit 
to the schoolroom before he discovered him- 
self to his old playmates, received with 
becoming modesty their homage, dispensed 
favors from his unlimited wealth, and learned 
that the one who had received his fare- 
well had been true to him through all the 
years. Then he spent an indefinite period in 
relating to his beneficiaries the adventures 
by which he had achieved riches, power, and 
fame. 

Although these dreams of the Butternut 
Grove were not told by Harlow to even his 
intimate companions, they were very real, 
and sometimes he almost believed them true. 
Moreover, they afforded him an innocent 
satisfaction in the feeling that he was leading 
a double life, the most delightful portion of 
which was hid from his nearest playmates 
and companions. 


100 


SNATCHED FROM THE 
SACRIFICE 


H ARLOW stood bashfully before the 
desk of the new teacher, rubbing one 
bare ankle with his other foot and striving 
for courage to disclose his first confidence. 

“ What is it, Harlow ? ” she said, pushing 
the point of a pencil into the cleft of her 
chin and smiling down upon him. 

“ Ab got his leg broke, an’ they had t’ 
kill ’ im,” replied the boy, nervously fin- 
gering his cap. 

“ Mercy ! How dreadful ! But who was 
Ab ? ” was the hearty response. 

Harlow’s expectancy was more than real- 
ized by the note of interest and sympathy 
in the teacher’s voice, and his faltering lips 
were instantly unsealed. 

“ He was our off-ox — the one with the 
white blaze. They was haulin’ basket elm 
out of the swale an’ he stuck his front leg 
right through a hole in the corduroy road, 
101 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


stumbled and snapped it square off. Steve 
said it popped like a pistol. Gee ! but I ’m 
glad it was n’t Ben ! Ben ’s mine. W e raised 
him, an’ Pa bought Ab t’ match. I c’n ride 
Ben all over th’ pasture — anywhere. Minds 
me good ’s a horse, Ben does. He ’ll follow 
me ’round like a dog. My, but he ’s a big 
fellow — an’ red all over exceptin’ th’ white 
star in his forehead ! ” 

“ And you ride him — that great ox ? ” 
responded the new teacher with fine in- 
credulity. 

“Yessum. Why, he’s just as gentle 
as a kitten. It scared Ma most to death 
first time she saw me on his back. But I ’ll 
show you what he ’ll do for me first time 
you come out to our house.” 

Swollen with pride at the new teacher’s 
admiration for the good-natured beast, Har- 
low went gayly home from school that after- 
noon, planning the new accomplishments in 
which he would train Ben before the visit 
of the new teacher, who came from the 
city and had worn three different dresses in 
the first month of school. 

Since Ben’s yoke-mate was gone he had 
been given over to a life of luxurious idleness, 
interrupted only by the patient drills in which 
102 


SNATCHED FROM SACRIFICE 


he was trained by his small rider. Just as 
he was almost master of the art of walking 
awkwardly in a circle, Ben was suddenly 
and unaccountably relegated to the back 
pasture, along with the fattening young 
stock. This vaguely troubled the boy, but 
he kept his misgivings to himself and 
patiently tramped through the West Woods 
to put his lumbering pet through the new 
paces which were to win the admiration of 
the teacher. 

One evening, after the first frost had struck 
the pumpkin vines into limp and blackened 
ruin, and Harlow was snuggled in the depths 
of the sitting-room rocker, he heard his father 
enter the kitchen and cheerfully remark : 

“ Ma, I ’m going to drive old Ben down 
to Fredony, Friday. He won’t take on 
much more weight from now on in th’ pas- 
ture, an’ it won’t pay t’ stall feed him at 
the price bran is. If he don’t dress a good 
thirteen hundred I ’ll buy you a new Paisley 
shawl.” 

The whir of the iron spoon on the pan of 
buckwheat batter suddenly paused, and the 
listening boy heard his mother exclaim : 

“ For mercy sake don’t say a word about 
it before Harlow. It ’ll break his heart. 

103 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


Mebby he won’t make such a fuss when it ’s 
all over an’ can’t be helped ; but if I was 
you I ’d bring him that red hatchet he’s 
been teasing for, when you come home. 
He ’ll have a regular tantrum if you don’t. 
Besides, you told him he could have Ben 
for his own when the creature was a little 
calf.” 

“Pshaw!” replied the father. “ S’pose I 
did. You don’t think I can turn the whole 
farm an’ stock over to a boy just because I 
happened t’ say he c’d call a calf his own ? 
Huh!” 

Harlow waited to hear no more, but stole 
silently up the stairway to his chamber, 
slipped off his clothes, and plunged into bed. 
Pulling the comforter over his head to 
smother the sound of his sobs, he wailed out 
the grief of an outraged heart. 

Ben — his Ben — was to be sold, killed, 
butchered, eaten! To the mind of the boy, 
who had stroked the smooth muzzle of the 
great good-natured brute and had romped 
the pasture on the back of this huge com- 
panion as long as he could remember, it 
seemed as if a member of the family had 
been selected for murder. And then they 
had thought to make this brutality right 
104 


SNATCHED FROM SACRIFICE 


with him by the gift of a red hatchet ! He 
had seen Steve strike the other ox between 
the eyes with the head of the axe, seen 
the knife plunged into the black spot on the 
poor creature’s throat — and this was what 
they would do with Ben ! This picture 
made him faint and sick, and he drew the 
bedclothes tighter about his head. 

It was well-nigh daylight before he was 
overcome with sleep, and then his thin chest 
shook with occasional sobs as the tragedy 
was repeated in his dream. In the morning 
he struggled to hide his grief and managed 
to choke down a few mouthfuls of pancakes, 
but left the table before the others had 
finished the meal. His chores were done 
with suspicious thoroughness and he started 
for school much earlier than usual, deter- 
mined to pour his sorrow into the sympa- 
thetic ears of the new teacher. 

Once under the dappled beeches of Thomp- 
son’s woods, however, Harlow was suddenly 
possessed of a daring thought. The sug- 
gestion was so wild and reckless that it al- 
most made him faint, and he sat limply 
down on the nearest log, to think it out. 

But why not ? Old Ben was his own. 
Hadn’t his mother said so — and hadn’t 
105 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


his father admitted the gift of the calf? 
Besides, he was not going to sell the ox and 
keep the money. He was only going to 
save him from being killed ! No ; it would 
not be stealing — just to take Old Ben away 
somewhere and hide him. He was quite 
sure of that. But where should he take 
him to ? No one could be trusted to help 
in this daring plan — not even Steve, the 
hired man, to whom he had confided several 
secrets. He must do it all alone. Not a 
living soul could be trusted. 

But where could a refuge be found for 
his friend who had been marked for the 
slaughter, doomed to the axe of the exe- 
cutioner ? 

Even the jangling summons of the first 
bell, sounding from the distant schoolhouse, 
failed to arouse him from pondering this 
tragic problem. Then, suddenly, the answer 
came to him : the SafFord Forty ! In- 
stantly he realized the almost providential 
security and isolation of this woods lot, 
thickly timbered, far removed from the 
public highway, and surrounded by the bar- 
rens of half-cleared slashings. And in the 
centre of its dense growth of timber was a 
small grass-grown patch of open and a 
106 


SNATCHED FROM SACRIFICE 


deserted sugar-house. Not even the squir- 
rel-hunters frequented it, for most of the 
trees were maples. It was a reserve wood- 
lot, and his father had not been there since 
it was added to the farm, from which it was 
separated by the holdings of neighbors. 
After school was out that very afternoon he 
would go to his refuge and lay out his plans 
for the hiding of Ben. 

It was a very white face that bent over 
Harlow’s desk that day ; but a big geogra- 
phy helped to hide him from the eyes of 
the new teacher, and the fever of excite- 
ment within him was masked with a quiet 
countenance. 

Occasionally the potential terrors of his 
desperate undertaking swept over him in 
waves of fear, but always he regained the rock 
of his determination : he must save Old Ben ! 

Like a spy making a secret reconnoissance 
into a hostile country, Harlow sped from 
school and took a ’cross-cut through the 
thickest timber to the SafFord Forty. On 
the ground the advantage of the hiding- 
place seemed greater than he had dared 
hope. The grass and the tender under- 
growth would furnish pasturage and brows- 
ing enough for Old Ben, at least until the 
107 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


heavy snows came. Then, perhaps, he 
would secretly haul a little hay on his hand- 
sled and put it in the sugar-house. And, any- 
way, winter was still quite a long way off ! 

Carefully, with all the shrewd cunning of 
the country boy’s woodcraft, he planned 
every step of the way by which he would 
lead Ben from the back pasture to his place 
of refuge. Then he visited the pasture and 
selected the very corner of the fence he 
would let down to permit the escape of his 
big pet. He chose a spot where the soil 
was so hard and stony that it would record 
no tell-tale footprints. 

Before supper that night, Harlow took 
from the big canvas sack in the granary a 
pailful of rock salt and hid it under the 
woodpile. If only he could get through the 
supper without betraying the inward dis- 
turbance which burned in eyes and cheeks, 
and if the moon were bright in the latter 
part of the night, then all would be well. 
He came to the table with unwashed face 
in order that the color in his cheeks might 
be less conspicuous. And the gods were 
good to him, for his father and Steve held 
forth on their favorite bone of contention : 
the doctrine of free-will and foreordination. 

108 


SNATCHED FROM SACRIFICE 


The evening seemed unaccountably long, 
but was made tolerable by a feverish perusal 
of the “ Great West,” a bulky subscription- 
book in which the heroic deeds of Boone, 
Kenton, Crockett, Carson, and other dauntless 
scouts were thrillingly recounted. But this 
time he read to a purpose, instead of for idle 
entertainment, searching eagerly for those 
portions that described the tricks by which 
the Indian-hunted scouts managed to cover 
their trails and render their footprints im- 
perceptible to the keen eyes of their savage 
pursuers. Fired with the reading of these 
tales of heroism he went quietly to his 
chamber. 

Again and again as he rolled and tossed 
in his bed, waiting for his father to wind the 
clock and go to the east bedroom, he can- 
vassed every detail of his daring plan and 
fought the thousand fears and doubts which 
assailed him. Was it wicked for him to 
hide Ben? Was it stealing? And if he 
were caught would they send him to prison, 
as they had old Hammer, down on the 
Town Line road, who stole a horse from 
Squire Ford ? Then the mental picture of 
old Ben dropping under the blow of the 
butcher’s axe put all his moral questioning 
109 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


to rout and restored his waning courage and 
determination. 

Although the night dragged interminably, 
he had resolved not to put his plan into 
execution until the clock struck two ; for 
in 4 The Chimney Corner ,’ which Shucks 
had lent him, he had read that desperate 
deeds were mostly done between the strokes 
of two and four at dead of night, when the 
world sleeps soundest. 

But at last the clock on the sitting-room 
mantel gave two wheezing strokes, and he 
slipped his spare, shaking limbs from between 
the sheets and hastily dressed. His shoes 
were tied together with a string and hung 
from his neck. 

Then, with trembling hands, he lifted the 
lid of the red chest and drew from its till 
the ancient 44 pepper box ” which had been 
secretly borrowed from Skinny Munger. 
His pocket bulged with the cumbersome 
pistol, and his conscience gave him a sharp 
twinge as he felt the cold handle of the 
forbidden possession. 

With the nimbleness and stealth of a cat, 
he made his way out of the window, along 
the roof of the 44 L ” and the woodshed, and 
dropped softly to the ground. Carefully 
110 


SNATCHED FROM SACRIFICE 


drawing the pail of salt from the woodpile, 
he crossed the road and disappeared into the 
gully which circled around the W est W oods 
towards the back pasture. 

How weird and wild was every feature of 
the familiar landscape under the ghastly 
light of the pale moon ! The waving of a 
clump of mullein-stalks made him stand 
shivering in his tracks, while his fingers 
clutched tightly over the round handle of the 
pistol. 

And how fearfully still was the whole 
night world! He did not move until he 
heard the distant and reassuring bark of 
Mitchell’s dog. Then he tried to think how 
Simon Kenton would have despised and 
scorned a boy who was afraid of the dark. 
This steeled his courage to go forward, until 
the fantastic form of a stump again gave him 
pause. In the moments in which he stood 
waiting to see if it would move, he could 
hear his heart beat with ominous distinctness. 

But at last, panting and shaking, he 
reached the back pasture, went straight to 
the big form of the recumbent ox, and called 
in trembling tones : 

“ Come, Ben ; get up ! ” 

Slowly the huge creature shambled to his 
111 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


feet and sniffed at the salt, eagerly licking 
out his long tongue. 

Quickly the boy led the way to the fence 
corner. The rails were let down and the ox 
walked out, waiting with an air of seeming 
bewilderment while Harlow replaced the 
fence as he had found it. 

Occasionally pausing to pat the red muzzle 
of his mute companion or to reward him 
with a handful of salt, the boy plodded on 
along his chosen trail through the dreary 
barrens, peopled with the grim, forbidding 
shapes of dead and 'blackened tree-stubs, on 
through the thick maple woods to the sugar- 
house at the edge of the open. 

Here Harlow scattered the salt thinly 
over the soil floor of the shanty, knowing 
that Ben would return there to lap the 
ground so long as a trace of the salt 
remained. This, perhaps, might aid in his 
concealment, and certainly it would accus- 
tom him to the place. 

Throwing his arm about the creature’s 
neck, Harlow buried his face for a moment 
against the warm shoulder of the ox, then 
turned and fled through the woods, with a 
double terror of the darkness, now that he 
had left Ben behind. 

112 


SNATCHED FROM SACRIFICE 


But at last the wild homeward run was 
finished, the salt pail hid, the woodhouse 
scaled, and he was again safe in his bedroom, 
where the pistol was replaced in the chest-till. 
In his sleep he muttered the name of his res- 
cued pet, but there was none to hear him. 

Morning brought fresh fears instead of the 
expected peace of achievement. At school 
the figures in Harlow’s arithmetic melted 
into each other, and the maps in the geography 
became meaningless blurs of color. His 
thought teemed with the new terrors he 
must face when he reached home and heard 
the recital of the mysterious disappearance 
of the ox. Plodding homeward, the dread of 
meeting his parents grew upon him. What if 
some one had seen him ? What if, in spite of 
all his care, they should find Old Ben’s tracks 
and trail him to his hiding-place ? Perhaps 
they would use Skinner’s hound to find the 
scent and do the tracking, just as they 
hunted down the negroes in the slavery 
days. That would mean sure discovery. 

“ Old Ben ’s gone ! ” exclaimed his mother, 
as Harlow entered the kitchen and threw 
his hat upon the table. 

“ Gone ? ” responded the boy in a tone of 
unfeigned excitement. “ Where ? ” 

8 113 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“He’s been stole, took out of the back pas- 
ture. An’ your Pa ’s gone to the butcher 
shop to warn them. He won’t be back to- 
night an’ mebby not for a day or two. Says 
he ’ll ride the whole country over but he ’ll 
run down the thief. It’s certain that Ben 
did n’t break out of the pasture, for they ’ve 
looked over every length of the fence and 
there hain’t a scratch or a break anywhere. 
The scamps that ’s got him just drove him 
out the bars as cool ’s anything. Now you 
jest hustle out to the barn and feed the stock, 
for Steve ’s out hunting the town over for 
traces an’ you ’ve got all the chores to do.” 

When Steve came in from the barn for 
his waiting supper he announced : 

“ Jim Cummins rode in from Busti to-day 
an’ told the crowd at the post-office that late 
last night, as he was driving home from the 
school exhibition at the Town Line school- 
house, he seen that Munger boy snoopin’ 
along the road. He ’s the one that knocked 
off the head of the marble lamp on top 
of Willie Thompson’s gravestone. There 
hain ’t a more nachl-born scamp in the whole 
town than that boy. He ’s just a shiftless 
vagabond and don’t do a thing but hunt 
an’ trap an’ loaf. When all ’s said and done, I 
114 


SNATCHED FROM SACRIFICE 


guess you ’ll find he ’s at the bottom of this 
business. I drove right over to Beldins’ 
an’ they said there was a light in Munger’s 
barn last night at a time when honest folks 
ought to ben abed. Then I went straight 
to Munger’s an’ made that I wanted to 
buy a fox-skin of Sam. He took me out 
to the barn — but of course there wasn’t 
anything suspicious in sight except some 
red hairs caught in a sliver of the stable 
door. But I ’ll bet he ’s got that ox 
hid away somewhere. Oh ! he ’s a cunnin’ 
scamp, an’ I ’m goin’ to keep an eye on 
him all right!” 

Under the suspense of Saturday and Sun- 
day Harlow grew visibly thin and moody. 
Everywhere he encountered the discussion 
of the one exciting topic. At church the 
men gathered in little groups on the front 
steps and at the horse sheds, and exchanged 
gossip and opinions on the latest phases of 
the episode ; as for the Mungers, they were 
never known to attend church save at 
the Christmas season. The post-office, the 
cheese factory, the corner store, and the 
hotel were forums in which the same sub- 
ject ruled. Turn whither he would, Harlow 
could not escape the commotion caused by 
115 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


the disappearance of the ox, and it seemed 
to him that the whole world was talking of 
nothing else. 

Each rehearsal of the tale abounded with 
unsparing condemnation of the 44 scamp ” 
who had brought disgrace upon the honest 
name of the community, and mysterious 
threats of 44 justice ” were as numerous as the 
speakers. Almost invariably, too, the sus- 
picion against the Munger boy was repeated, 
with a conviction which rapidly grew into 
the proportions of a moral certainty. 

Each repetition added fuel to the flames 
of Harlow’s conscience, until his mental tor- 
tures suggested the expedient of a flight 
from the clutches of the law, which seemed 
about to seize upon him. 

Monday, as he once more faced the new 
teacher, he well-nigh yielded to the tempta- 
tion to make a clean confession of his terri- 
ble secret ; but before he could summon 
courage to speak, her desk was surrounded 
by tittering girls and he silently retreated 
with his guilty burden. 

That night he found his father at home, 
but too tired and preoccupied to give him 
more than passing notice. 

44 Steve ’s got the right of it,” said the 
116 


SNATCHED FROM SACRIFICE 


father, at the supper-table, after the hired 
man had presented his suspicions with a 
convincing array of circumstantial evidence. 

“ That scalawag of a young Hunger ’s the 
guilty one. Why, everything points to it, 
straight as a die. I ’ll land him behind the 
bars before mornin’ — an’ he ’ll stay there for 
one w r hile, too ! He ’ll go to prison for that, 
sure’s there’s a law in this land. Steve, 
you hitch up right aw r ay and we ’ll drive over 
to the Squire’s and swear out a warrant.” 

There was a terrifying tone of earnestness 
and savage determination in the speaker’s 
voice beyond anything Harlow had ever 
known. His ears rang with the words : 
“ the bars” “prison” “ the law” “ swear a 
warrant” And he, not the Hunger boy, 
was the guilty one ! 

He leaned back in the chair and tried 
to think. Should he — could he tell ? Sud- 
denly the room seemed to be whirling 
around ; then all grew indistinct and he 
could see only revolving blotches of light. 

“ Harlow ! Harlow ! What ’s the matter, 
child?” 

The voice seemed to come from a long 
way off, but it was his mother’s voice and 
she was bending over him, a dipper in her 
117 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


hand, and he was stretched upon the kitchen 
floor. And he could see his father’s legs 
towering up above him like trunks of 
trees. 

44 I did it, Ma ! ” uttered the boy ; 44 I stole 
Ben. He ’s hid in th’ Safford Forty — in the 
old sugar house. I heard Pa say he was 
goin’ to sell Ben to the butcher to be killed, 
an’ I could n’t stand it. But he was my Ben. 
Pa' gave him to me, did n’t he ? You told 
him so. It was n’t stealin’, just to hide him 
so he could n’t be killed, was it, Ma ? An’ 
you won’t let ’em put me in jail ? I won’t 
never ask for that red hatchet — never ! — if 
you’ll make ’em leave me go, just this time. 
And--” 

When Harlow again opened his eyes with 
full consciousness of his surroundings he was 
in the big white bed of the east room ; it 
was morning and the door was open. For 
a moment he lay with his eyes half closed 
trying to think what had happened. 

Then his father came awkwardly into the 
room, and stood beside the bed, looking very 
tall and strangely solemn. 

44 If you feel like gettin’ up,” he finally 
said, turning away so that the boy might not 
see his face, 44 we ’ll drive to town an’ pick 
118 


SNATCHED FROM SACRIFICE 


out the best little red hatchet in Sperry’s 
store. An’ it ’s all right about Ben. He ’s 
out in the barnyard now, waitin’ to see you. 
I guess he got kind of lonesome up there 
on the Forty. Anyway he ’s yourn, and 
yourn to keep for good an’ all. I had n’t 
any business t’ sell him away, anyhow. It 
wa’n’t right.” 

There was a moment of silence and then 
came a thin, plaintive voice from the bed 
timidly asking : 

“ Can’t we invite the new teacher to come 
home with us ? She ’s awful nice and pritty. 
An’ I told her once how I liked old Ben 
and how he ’d mind me.” 

“ Course,” came the quick reply ; “ we ’ll 
bring her home with us after school.” 

That night, when supper was over, the 
new teacher and the entire family sat on 
the steps of the side door while a small boy 
rode forth triumphantly from the barnyard 
bars mounted on the broad back of old Ben, 
who halted before the company while his 
grinning rider dismounted and assumed the 
proud role of ringmaster, to whose commands 
the great red creature marched solemnly in 
a circle, backed, turned sharp corners and 
otherwise displayed his accomplishments to 
119 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


the music of the new teacher’s laughter and 
applause. 

Then, when the performance was ended, 
and Harlow had recounted the thrilling 
flight by night to the heart of the Safford 
Forty, she put an arm about the boy’s 
neck, drew his cheek against her own and 
whispered : 

“ When I go to Fredonia, Saturday, Har- 
low, I ’m going to buy you the most beauti- 
ful pair of brass nubs for the tips of old Ben’s 
horns that I can find.” 

Harlow eagerly responded to this rare 
demonstration from the new teacher, whose 
beauty, grace, and sympathy seemed almost 
angelic, and whispered in return : 

“I — I li -like your clothes .” 


120 



“The new teacher put an arm about the boy’s neck.” 



GETTING HIS FIRST GUN 


N O passion ever ruled Harlow more 
powerfully than the desire to possess 
a gun. The seeds of this burning ambition 
were sown by a select and secret course of 
reading which he pursued in the solitude 
of the old hay-barn. Stretched at full length 
on the breast of the fragrant mow, he fol- 
lowed the entrancing adventures of “ Jack 
Harkaway Among The Brigands,” lived the 
charmed life of “ Sailor Crusoe ” and of that 
heaven-protected castaway’s dusky bride : 
“ The Demon Huntress.” He fought the 
bloody battles of Black Hawk, Tecumseh, 
and Big Foot, and joined “ The Boy Hunt- 
ers ” in their incredibly moral and marvel- 
lous experiences in the backwoods. 

Some of these literary masterpieces bore 
the mark of sin in the form of yellow-paper 
covers, slimsy and thumb-soiled, ornamented 
with the shameless legend, “ Beadle’s Dime 
Novels ” and the fac simile of a row of dimes. 
121 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


Every page of these forbidden chronicles 
bristled with firearms. The cheery twitter 
of the barn swallows from their mud nests 
along the ridge-pole, the soft cooing of doves 
in their box in the gable, and the far-away 
calls of the sentinel crow, which flashed his 
black wings from the tip of a distant fence- 
stake, made the unheeded monody to which 
Harlow’s supreme passion to own a gun was 
born. Mingled with the dawn of this great 
desire was the sweet smell of the new-mown 
hay, the pungent odor of tansy, and the deli- 
cate fragrance of drying clover. 

VYhen his longing reached a development 
which defied repression, he resolved upon a 
course for which his conscience smote him 
with merciless severity. But he was help- 
less to resist. His hands burned to touch 
the steel of a “ trusty weapon.” Remem- 
bering that he had once seen, in the chim- 
ney-drawer of the east bedroom, something 
which resembled a pistol, he awaited his 
opportunity to search for the long neglected 
treasure. No sooner was the house tempo- 
rarily deserted than he placed a chintz-cov- 
ered stool in a chair and hastily clambered 
upon them. Then, with guilty and trem- 
bling hands, he violated the secrecy of the 
122 


GETTING HIS FIRST GUN 


chimney-drawer, which had always been 
held sacred to his father’s exclusive use. 

After a moment’s blind fumbling about 
among gimlets, awls, pincers, and other small 
implements of domestic utility — for the 
drawer was so high that he could not see 
over its edge — he was thrilled by the touch 
of the pistol’s smooth handle. Withdrawing 
the weapon he gazed upon it with speechless 
reverence. What matter that its hammer 
was missing ? It was still a real pistol and 
he held it in his hand ! Most important of 
all, it closely resembled the weapon which 
the woodcuts depicted as dangling from 
Jack Harkaway’s belt. Thenceforth he felt 
its joyful burden in his pocket by day, and 
at evening he hid it under the board before 
the cellar window, near the corner of the 
upright. From the powder-horn in the old 
attic chest he obtained a secret supply of 
ammunition, bought a box of percussion-caps 
from the itinerant peddler, and then sought 
the solitude of the ravine at the back of the 
west woods. Clutching the rounded handle 
in his left hand and a smooth stone in his 
right, he brought the latter down upon the 
exposed head of the cap with a quick, half- 
fearful stroke. The joy which the discharge 

ns 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


and the smell of the burned powder yielded 
the boy is not to be explained or described. 
It was one of the unsolved mysteries of 
boyhood. 

But the fondest of human joys fade and 
fail with much familiarity, and the day 
came in which the hammerless pistol lost its 
charm. That was the day when the hired 
man graciously permitted Harlow to accom- 
pany him on a squirrel-hunt and to shoot 
with his long, octagon-barrelled Kentucky 
rifle. More of these blissful occasions fol- 
lowed and each served to deepen the im- 
pression in the family circle that its youngest 
member had reached that dreaded but inevi- 
table condition of masculine development 
known as the “gun fever.” The cheerful 
diligence with which he awaited the daily 
arrival of the mail stage at the village post- 
office was worthy the devotion of an epis- 
tolary lover ; and no perfumed missive from 
absent sweetheart was ever more eagerly 
read and re-read in moments of stolen soli- 
tude than the catalogues from the manufac- 
turers of firearms which came to Harlow in 
answer to secretly written requests. 

Had his arithmetic or geography received 
the devoted study which he bestowed upon 
124 


GETTING HIS FIRST GUN 


these illustrated pamphlets from the gun- 
makers, he would have held first rank in 
these branches in the village school. The 
hopeless conviction that his parents would 
no more permit him to buy a gun than to 
adopt a rattlesnake as a pet did not prevent 
him from choosing and re-choosing with 
delicious seriousness and deliberation, the 
firearm which he most desired. 

The decision of each day was invariably 
discarded the following morning for the 
sheer pleasure of making a new selection. 
At the breakfast-table one morning his 
father startled him with the question : 

4 4 To-morrow ’s your birthday, ain’t it ? ” 

44 Yes, sir,” responded Harlow. 

44 How much money have you got in your 
bank ? ” 

“Fifteen dollars and twenty-eight cents.” 

There was a pleasant gleam in the father’s 
deep-set gray eyes, which boded happy 
things, but even this did not inspire the 
boy to a remote suspicion of the tremendous 
revelation which was suddenly to break 
upon him. 

44 Your Ma and I ’ve talked it over and 
concluded you ’re bound to have a gun some 
way — by hook or by crook — and that we 
125 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


might as well get you one. But you must 
promise to mind all we say about it, and not 
have anything to do with a pistol.” 

The boy jumped from the table, hugged 
his mother, shouted “Gee! Goody! Hur- 
rah ! ” and then made a wild rush for the 
little iron bank in which were deposited all 
the savings of his lifetime, — the pennies 
which had been his reward for taking bitter 
doses of calomel, for staying away from 
picnics and parties, and for weeding endless 
rows of onions. In less than three hours 
Harlow, arrayed in his Sunday clothes, was 
standing beside his father in Seeley’s gun- 
shop, in Dunkirk. Each cheek showed a 
rim of vivid crimson encircling a spot of 
white, and he trembled like a young colt 
which had scarcely found its legs. 

A pauper suddenly empowered to choose 
for his own a kingdom from all the empires 
of earth could not have experienced half the 
wild transport of joy which thrilled the gun- 
smith’s small customer. The Unattainable 
had been brought within his grasp ; the 
supreme longing of his life — always too 
great and too remote for his hope to grasp — 
presented itself for his gratification ! From 
the bright, bewildering array of weapons in 
126 


GETTING HIS FIRST GUN 


the racks before him Harlow was to choose 
his gun. One by one the burnished treas- 
ures were placed in his hands. He lifted 
their stocks to his shoulder, sighted along 
the polished barrels, cocked and half-cocked 
their hammers, 44 hefted ” the weapons in his 
hands and across his shoulder, and discussed 
the merits of each with a familiarity which 
brought him a proud compliment from the 
gunsmith. 

Finally a single-barrelled, breech-loading 
shotgun, with unvarnished walnut stock, 
was brought from a case in the rear of the 
shop. It was unlike any gun he had ever 
seen. There was something deadly and 
uncommon in its appearance which won him 
on the instant. But he did not declare his 
choice until he had opened the breech, looked 
through the shining barrel, and made a 
minute examination of its every detail. 
Then, with decisive firmness, he declared : 

“ This is the one I want — and it ’s just 
$15.00, too !” 

His father made no objection to the 
selection, and at once began a bartering 
contest with the dealer for the accessories 
to be 4 4 thrown in.” 

For once Harlow did not sleep during 

m 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


the long night-ride home. His mind was 
filled with a glorious panorama of the joys 
before him. He knew that he would be 
envied by every boy of his acquaintance — 
even by the minister’s son, who carried a 
gold watch, went away to school, and gen- 
erally shunned the society of the farm boys. 
And then, to-morrow he would go hunting ! 
To-morrow and endless to-morrows would be 
his in the fields and woods, where he would 
wander with his proud and precious treasure ! 
The joy of it almost choked him, but he 
hugged his gun the tighter and made a 
fresh resolve that he would be a very good 
boy “ to make up for it.” 


12a 


THE GIRL WITH THE BROWN 
BRAIDS 


N OW that he owned a gun and went 
hunting alone, Harlow felt that the 
time had come for him to put away childish 
things. At the moment when Elder Jen- 
nings read from the pulpit the announce- 
ment that a “ sociable of the church and 
congregation ” would be held the following 
Thursday evening, at the home of Deacon 
Winchester, the boy’s eyes were intensely 
regarding two long braids of brown hair, 
tipped with bows of yellow ribbon, which 
dangled over the back of the pew in front 
of him. Instantly he connected the an- 
nouncement with the wearer of the soft, 
plaited strands. 

Dare he ask her to the sociable ? The 
question quickened his heartbeats and caused 
him to forget the discomfort of his Sunday 
clothes. The longer he studied the alternat- 
ing lights and shadows of those brown braids, 
9 129 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


the more did desire blossom into purpose. 
His adventures into social life had not only 
been limited, but of tentative and somewhat 
discouraging nature. Once he had stood 
with the village boys, as they formed in two 
lines reaching from the church door to the 
sidewalk, waiting for the girls to come flock- 
ing out of conference meeting. 

He had taken a “ dare ” from Shorty 
Andrews, to ask Phoebe Hogeboom if he 
might escort her to her home. But his time 
was ill-chosen, as Phoebe came out with the 
first bevy of girls which passed down the 
steps between the two gantlet lines of youth- 
ful gallants. Although he dashed bravely 
from the masculine ranks and rushed awk- 
wardly after the retreating Phoebe, his 
muttered “ Please m’ I see you home ? ” was 
either unheard or cruelly rejected, for his 
only answer was a chorus of giggles from her 
companions. As he stepped once more into 
line he was greeted with the taunt, — 

“ That ’s the coldest mitten I ever saw ! ” 
The seemingly interminable Sabbath after- 
noon was spent in an effort to decide upon 
the most suitable and propitious means of 
offering his invitation. Should he address a 
formal letter to “ Miss Leslie Wilkins” and 
130 


GIRL WITH BROWN BRAIDS 


send it through the post-office, or go to her 
home and make known his mission in person ? 
The arrival of Monday morning brought 
him no nearer a definite decision. Therefore 
he filled his side pocket with doughnuts from 
the big stone jar in the pantry, took his gun, 
and wandered up to the West Woods. 

Here he played hide and seek with a big 
black squirrel which contrived to keep the 
trunk of the tree between them. But finally 
the chattering fugitive made too bold a dis- 
play of his head above a limb and paid with 
his life the penalty of his indiscretion. To 
kill a black squirrel was no small distinction. 
Feeling, therefore, that the success of his 
day’s hunt was already assured, he relaxed 
his sportsmanlike watchfulness and trudged 
along the cowpath. 

The fresh, woodsy smell recalled to him 
the day when the school children had spent 
the noon hour in Thompson’s Woods and he 
had kissed Les Wilkins in that first game of 
Needle’s Eye. That event now seemed to 
him to belong to the remote and foolish past. 
In the maturity of his present passion he 
despised himself for his former stupidity and 
coldness. 

Reaching the spring in the side of the 
131 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


ravine, at the back of the woods, he 
stretched himself on the grassy bank, 
munched his doughnuts and lost conscious- 
ness of all his surroundings in a dream 
wherein he saw himself standing in the hol- 
low close by the Wilkins house, his gun in 
his hand, a mad dog dead at his feet, and 
the grateful parents of the delivered Leslie 
assuring him that a hero’s reward was at 
his command. 

Suddenly the squeal of a hawk in mid-air, 
pursued by a plucky and pestiferous king- 
bird, aroused Harlow from this pleasant self- 
adulation. As the big bird made a swift 
downward swoop to rid himself of his petty 
enemy, the burnished barrel of the breech- 
loader glistened a moment in the sunlight, 
the smoke puffed from its muzzle, and the 
hawk swirled and pitched to earth in a head- 
long tumble that almost startled the marks- 
man. He tied the victim of his off-hand 
shot over his back, its mottled wings flap- 
ping proudly about his sides. Then he 
struck out at a brisk pace along the crest 
of the ridge which encircled the village. 

His footsteps were guided and quickened 
by a purpose born of the day-dream which 
had beguiled his rest beside the spring. He 
132 


GIRL WITH BROWN BRAIDS 


would cut down through the slashings and 
come out at the old Wilkins place, and if 
the same good fortune which had attended 
his efforts as a hunter still continued with 
him he would chance, by easy accident, to en- 
counter Les Wilkins about the yard. What 
would be more natural than that a hunter 
should stop at the old well for a drink? 

As he emerged from the slashing on the 
side-hill and took a quick survey of the 
premises, his eye caught the glad glint of a 
broad sun hat and a checked gingham dress 
under the pasture side of the dense willow 
hedge. A happy intuition led him to pre- 
tend, on nearer approach, that he had not 
noticed her presence. Suddenly he looked 
up and exclaimed : 

“ Hello, Les ! Look a-here ! ” and he 
held up the huge hawk in one hand and the 
black squirrel in the other. 

“You didn’t shoot’em?” was her quick 
challenge. 

“ Yes, I did, too,” he asserted, as he threw 
them carelessly to the ground and seated 
himself upon the feed box. I got the black 
fellow in the butternut grove, and the 
chicken thief in the west pasture. But, 


133 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“ Say it yourself,” was her saucy retort. 
But her good-natured laugh reassured his 
almost waning courage, and he continued : 

“ Won’t you go to the sociable with me, 
Les?” 

She pushed her foot back and forth in the 
carpet of yellow leaves that had fallen from 
the willows and did not answer until after 
several moments of maidenly deliberation. 
Then she tossed over her shoulder the braid 
with which her fingers had been toying and 
said : 

“Y-e-s — if Ma’ll let me. An’ I guess 
she will, for she lets me do ’most everything 
I want to. I ’ll go in the house and see.” 

A moment later she came tripping out of 
the back door, her face lighted with undis- 
guised pleasure. 

“ Can y’u ? ” eagerly questioned the wait- 
ing suitor. 

“ Course I can. Did n’t I tell you so ? ” 

So easy and complete had been his 
triumph that Harlow felt like turning a 
hand-spring, giving a cat-call, and indulging 
in other customary expressions of boyish 
hilarity. Not in all her church-going finery 
had Leslie Wilkins ever appeared so be- 
witching to him as now, arrayed in her sim- 
134 












































r 






























“ ‘Smartie ! ’ ” 



GIRL WITH BROWN BRAIDS 

pie blue-checked gingham. When at last 
he summoned sufficient fortitude to take his 
departure she walked with him to the end of 
the hedge nearest the road. They were quite 
alone and she stood close to him stroking the 
soft feathers of the hawk with her hand. The 
fascination of the brown braids was strong 
upon him. One moment he hesitated, then 
he reached boldly forth and took one of the 
soft strands in his hand. She did not ap- 
pear to notice what he had done. As he 
coiled the pliant braid about his fingers his 
courage waxed strong, and at last, in a low 
voice which trembled just a little, he said : 

“ Say, Les ; don’t you remember the time 
when we played Needle’s Eye, down at the 
picnic grounds ? ” 

“ Uh-huh. Why ? ” — and she glanced 
coyly up at him with a witchery which 
seemed a challenge. 

46 You know ! ” he exclaimed — but the 
next moment the palm of her hand came 
smartly in contact with his cheek and he 
heard the laughing word, — 

“ Smartie ! ” 

Then she jerked the braid from his grasp 
and vanished through the hedge. But Har- 
low was not dismayed because his attentions 
135 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


had been repulsed, for there was only mis- 
chief in that laugh. He was very happy as 
he returned home by way of the store, where 
he purchased his first box of paper collars, 
in anticipation of the sociable. 


SKINNY MUNGER’S BAPTISM 


T HE day when Skinny Munger was bap- 
tized brought the first frost and gained 
something of impressiveness, at least in the 
thought of Harlow, from its association with 
the initial glories of autumn. Not that he 
was directly conscious of the season’s in- 
fluence. He did not even make mental 
note that Fall had come ; but he absorbed, 
in an unanalyzing way, the sombre sugges- 
tiveness of nature’s richly solemn setting 
to the baptismal scene. 

The weight of the thousand falling leaves 
rested upon his soul, and the wind that loosed 
them from their branches whispered a note 
of sadness in his ears. Days of dreamy 
abstraction and the impulse to indulge in 
sudden and unprovoked tears were invariable 
accompaniments of Fall weather in the ex- 
perience of the boy. He was wrapped in 
this tender and responsive mood that Sab- 
bath morning, as the buggy rattled down 
through the hollow, and his mother asked : 
137 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“ Had we better stay to the baptism ? ” 

“ Why ; I s’pose so. Who is it ? ” re- 
sponded the father. 

“ Munger’s second boy,” responded the 
mother. “ He ’s been under conviction ever 
since last spring when he broke the head off 
the marble lamb on top little Willie 
Thompson’s stone in the old graveyard. 
You ’d ought to heard him relate his experi- 
ence in covenant meetin’ yesterday, when he 
was received for baptism. He confessed 
everything about the stone — told how he 
was coming ’cross-lots through the grave- 
yard and had his hatchet in his hand. The 
devil, he said, just put it into him to smash 
the lamb’s head. It seemed as if he could n’t 
help himself — as if he was just possessed ; 
and so he hit it a rap an’ then run. I never 
listened to a brighter an’ more moving 
experience of religion in my life. If that 
ain’t a clear case of conviction, repentance, 
an’ conversion, then I don’t know ! There 
wasn’t a dry eye in the whole covenant 
meetin’ when he finished his experience — 
not one ! ” 

Of the three ways whereby a small, ill- 
favored, and hopelessly insignificant boy of 
ten years may command the undivided 
138 


SKINNY MUNGER’S BAPTISM 


attention of the community, Skinny had 
attained the second. After winning fame as 
the wickedest boy in the township by muti- 
lating a gravestone, he had again achieved 
equal prominence by a timely repentance 
and conversion. Where before he had been 
denounced from pulpits and street corners as 
the “black sheep of the town” whose act of 
almost blasphemous sacrilege entitled him 
to be shunned by every boy of his acquaint- 
ance, he was now suddenly transformed into 
a small religious hero. 

He had been notoriously bad, and he was 
now to be baptized. In only one other way 
— by an “untimely death ” — could he have 
attained equal prominence in the thought of 
the community. At least this was the view 
freely expressed by the irreverent Steve to 
a group of hired men standing upon the 
front steps of the church as Harlow and 
his mother waited for the father to put out 
the horse. 

But the impious observation brought a 
chilling shock to both these listeners. As 
they entered the church they experienced 
no difficulty in locating the young convert, 
for all eyes were centred upon the front 
seat. Harlow gave unconscious testimony 
139 


THE COUNTRY BOY 

to the marvellous change which had been 
wrought in the penitent boy : 

“ Ma,” he whispered, “ Skinny ’s had his 
hair cut ! — an he ’s got a new suit of clothes! 
Is he goin’ t ’ be baptized in ’em ? ” 

The morning sermon was more than 
usually impressive. The small occupant of 
the front seat was referred to as the “first 
fruit of harvest,” and the text pointedly de- 
clared that “ a little child shall lead them.” 
It did not seem possible that this was the 
same Skinny who had been so universally 
denounced a few months before ; but 
there could be no mistaking the preacher’s 
meaning. In only a vague way, however, 
could Harlow realize that the despised, re- 
jected, and shunned outcast had been sud- 
denly transformed into “ one of God’s elect ” 
who was “ shortly to descend into baptismal 
waters.” 

When the congregation was dismissed 
with the solemn benediction there were 
many silent handshakings by the women, 
who made no concealment of their tears, 
and the men who waited awkwardly in the 
vestibule and about the front steps, were 
depressingly silent upon the familiar subjects 
of crops and weather. A few moments 
140 


SKINNY HUNGER’S BAPTISM 


later Harlow stood beside his mother upon 
the banks of the creek, just below the old 
mill. To secure a better view he clambered 
upon one of the side beams to the plank 
“ apron,” over which the water from the 
wheel glided in a broad, smooth sheet, 
flashing in the sunlight like a big mirror. 

Nearest the bank stood the new teacher 
and other members of the choir, with hymn- 
books in their hands. Close about them 
were scores of girls in pure white dresses 
and sashes of blue and pink ribbon. Back 
of these stood the older church people, while 
the crowd was fringed with curious hangers- 
on, attracted by the picturesque features of 
the baptism. 

Every eager face gleamed with the light 
of religious ecstasy, and a silent hush fell 
upon the waiting throng. Harlow recalled 
the Bible story of Jesus’ baptism in the Jor- 
dan, and wondered if it might not be that a 
dove would appear and light upon the head 
of the redeemed Skinny, who had expe- 
rienced so great a salvation. The high- 
pitched emotion of the hour, the impas- 
sioned power of the sermon to which he had 
listened, and the spectacular scene made this 
miraculous climax seem very possible. Sud- 
141 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


denly he heard his teacher’s clear voice start 
the hymn : 

“ There is a fountain filled with blood 
Drawn from Immanuel’s veins. 

And sinners plunged beneath that flood 
Lose all their guilty stains.” 

Then he saw the tall, black-robed form of 
Elder Jennings slowly moving from out the 
group of singers, bearing in his strong arms, 
as a mother would carry a sleeping child, 
the small, white-clad Skinny, whose pallid 
face and half-shut eyes gave him a strange, 
almost angelic, appearance. Harlow heard 
the “ swish, swish ” of the stiff robes through 
the water as the pastor walked cautiously 
into the deepest portion of the stream. 

“Ain’t he just beautiful? — the blessed 
child ! An’ Mrs. Thompson made that 
white robe with her own hands,” whispered 
the weeping woman who stood near the mill 
apron. “ She said she wanted to make it as 
an offering of forgiveness for the broken 
gravestone.” 

In solemn and measured tones the pastor 
repeated the baptismal vows. Only the 
suppressed sobs of the woman broke the 
impressive pause which preceded the final 
words : 


142 


SKINNY MUNGER’S BAPTISM 


“ I baptize thee in the name of the 
Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost — 
Amen ! ” 

As the little white-robed figure disap- 
peared beneath the water the choir sent 
forth the swelling anthem of baptismal 
praise : 

“ Oh, happy day, that fixed my choice 
On Thee, my Saviour and my God ! 

Well may this glowing heart rejoice 
And tell its raptures all abroad.” 

There were no spluttering convulsions as 
Skinny reappeared, for he had figured in too 
many mock rehearsals of this ceremony at 
the old swimming hole, to experience any 
difficulty from swallowing water. The spec- 
tators took up the chorus : 

“ Happy day, happy day, 

When Jesus washed my sins away. 

He taught me how to watch and pray 
And live rejoicing every day.” 

Had the song been sung by angel voices 
it could hardly have moved Harlow to 
greater emotional heights. It seemed that 
Heaven was very near, and the sobs which 
had been swelling within him broke their 
bonds as he heard the closing verse : 

143 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“ High heaven that heard the solemn vow 
That vow renewed shall daily hear, 

Till in life’s latest hour I bow 

And bless in death a bond so dear.” 

He would not have been greatly surprised 
had Skinny that moment suddenly disap- 
peared from mortal sight. But Skinny was 
not granted the supreme glory of a spiritual 
transfiguration. He lingered to enjoy his 
baptismal distinction and for a season to 
bask in the favor and partiality of the church 
and community. 


144 


WHEN MAME FINISHED HER 
SCHOOLING 


F ROM his earliest recollections Harlow 
had been taught that he had a Saviour 
in Heaven and a sister in Cincinnati at 
school. One belonged as much to his world 
as the other — no more so! Both were 
individualities of imagination, and while he 
accepted their existence with unquestioning 
faith, the evidences of their actuality were 
so nearly parallel in extent and nature 
that he came unconsciously to hold them 
in close association as two beings of whom 
he was always to hear, but whom he was 
never to see. 

In the big album, on the centre-table in 
the parlor, was the photograph of a young 
woman — or was she a girl ? — arrayed in a 
white garment of a kind and grace he had 
never seen worn by mortal woman, not even 
by the new teacher. When the stiff and 
mustv serenity of the parlor was invaded 
10 145 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


by the presence of company and fresh air 
this photograph was proudly displayed as 
“ Marne’s picture.” But underneath the al- 
bum reposed the big family Bible in which 
the face and figure of the Saviour were 
delineated with equal definiteness and cor- 
poreality. Harlow seldom looked upon the 
pictorial evidence of his sister’s mortal exist- 
ence without also beholding the artistic 
representation of white-robed Christ. 

The similarity of their apparel and of the 
subdued tones in which his mother always 
spoke when referring to either of these 
absent personalities suggested a relationship 
of the two images which survived many a 
less childish conception. His expectation of 
beholding the fleshly presence of the sad-faced 
Saviour was as readily grasped by his faith 
as was the expectation of his sister’s bodily 
appearing. The former event, he had been 
repeatedly assured, would take place at the 
“ Resurrection Day ” and the latter when 
Marne finished her schooling. As neither 
had yet come within his experience, one was 
not more remote than the other in the vague 
perspective of his outlook into the future, 
wherein a year appeared almost as unthink- 
able a stretch of duration as eternity. 

146 


MAME FINISHED SCHOOLING 


When his mother laid beside her plate 
the daintily scented letter which Steve had 
brought from the postoffice and made the 
announcement “Marne’s coming homel” 
Harlow received the information with much 
the same reverential bewilderment that he 
might have experienced had she said, “ The 
resurrection day has come at last, and Jesus 
will be here.” At least he retained for some 
time the lurking suspicion that the sound of 
the last trump was not nearly so remote as 
before the announcement of the termination 
of Marne’s school-days in Cincinnati. He 
could not disassociate from the thought of 
the Saviour’s earthly appearing a touch of 
well-grounded theological fear, but other- 
wise his sister’s home-coming was looked 
forward to as almost equal in sacred nov- 
elty and unexpectedness to that mighty and 
final event. 

Not until his mother began to hang spot- 
less white dimity curtains at the front 
chamber windows and give other distinctly 
feminine touches to the long-untenanted 
room could Harlow realize the actuality 
of the presence which had hitherto been 
but a tradition, a sentiment, a picture in 
the album, a name spoken in the hushed 
147 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


tones of maternal pride. The one thing 
more than all others which helped to remove 
this impending arrival from the mists of 
intangibility was the purchase, at Fredonia, 
of a sale carpet, and a bureau and washstand 
painted in blue and ornamented with clus- 
ters of decalcomanie roses. 

The installation of these splendid luxuries 
was a signal which the eye could grasp and 
interpret. By this token he knew that 
Marne was “ somebody,” an actual woman, 
but of a different and finer fibre than any he 
had ever known. There was also a potency 
of suggestion in the fresh store-smell of the 
carpet and furniture which moved him to 
inquire of his mother, “Do you s’ pose 
she ’ll bring me anything, Ma ? ” 

Before the arrival of the day when the 
welcome party was to meet Marne at the 
Crosscut Station, Harlow’s speculations re- 
garding his sister underwent a decided 
change. She had removed from her original 
classification and was no longer associated 
with the sacred and incorporeal personages 
of religious faith. He even came to wonder 
that he had so long clung to this childish 
conception of her. Still, there was much 
of the rare, spiritual, and unearthly in the 
148 


MAME FINISHED SCHOOLING 


mental image which filled his thoughts. 
She was more a mysterious and beautiful 
creature than a flesh-and-blood sister. The 
night before the appointed day of her 
arrival he went to bed very early in order 
that the lagging hours might be shortened 
by the soothing touch of sleep. The voice 
of his father, echoing up the stairway, 
aroused him before the sun was up. 

A heavy fog hung over the flat and traced 
the windings of Bear Creek, shutting off 
Thompson’s Wood and contracting the 
familiar landscape until it seemed a strange 
new world, shrouded in a soft mantle of 
blue-gray shadows which gave it a fantastic 
and almost unearthly appearance. As the 
happy company in the democrat wagon 
broke the stillness of the Kabob woods the 
scarlet spikes of sumac seemed to tilt a 
salute to the passers. Even the broad 
leaves of the rank burdocks which brushed 
against the wagon-wheels were so beaded 
and dripping with dew that they appeared 
beautiful in the eyes of the boy. 

But weeks of cumulative excitement 
found their climax w T ith the rush of the train 
into the station and his mother’s tear-choked 
exclamation : 


149 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“ There ’s Mame ! ” 

Harlow leaned awkwardly against a bag- 
gage-truck while a beautiful creature disen- 
tangled herself from her mother’s embraces 
and kissed the harshly unshaven lips of her 
father. 

“Where ’s that little brother?” she quickly 
inquired, and the next moment he was being 
kissed upon lips and cheek by this radiant 
vision of feminine fairness. 

The lifting of a big trunk into the back 
of the democrat wagon introduced a new 
object of anticipation into the consciousness 
of Harlow. He became as eager to witness 
the unpacking of the trunk as he had been 
to look upon the face of its owner. Would 
she defer this function until another day or 
begin it at once after dinner ? The question 
assumed an exaggerated and almost tragic 
interest. He was not doomed to disap- 
pointment. “ You ’d better unpack right 
in the middle of the sittin’-room,” said the 
mother when they arrived at home and 
Steve brought the trunk into the house. 

The meal was prodigal in the variety 
of its side dishes, and hoarded delicacies 
from the cellar were brought forth to cele- 
brate the return of the long-absent daughter. 

150 


MAME FINISHED SCHOOLING 


But Harlow could eat little. His thought 
centred upon the mysteries of the trunk. 
Perhaps Mame understood this, for, arising 
from the table, she said, “Wouldn’t you 
like to help me unpack ? ” As the lid of 
the Saratoga was thrown back a perfume 
almost too delicate to be instantly detected 
permeated the room. It was the essence of 
the city, the atmosphere of feminality, a 
breath from a rare and strange world be- 
yond his dreams ! Dainty white garments 
resplendent with laces and frills caught his 
shy glances, and dresses of marvellous beauty 
challenged his admiration. 

Each article from out the trunk was more 
wonderful than those which bad preceded 
it. Finally she handed him a package with 
the comment, “ That ’s for you.” How 
the wrappings defied his eager fingers and 
interposed a delicious delay in the prog- 
ress of uncovering ! But at last he arrived 
at the real contents, — a checker-board, with 
bright squares and elaborately turned and 
stamped “men.” 

A moment later he was wondering if she 
would give him anything else. The be- 
stowal of several worn-out school-books 
rewarded his greedy watchfulness, which 
151 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


was only partially restrained by his mother s 
frequent admonition : “ Don’t crowd up so 
close and don’t tease for everything you 
see.” 

From that moment Marne became a pal- 
pable presence, a dispenser of gifts and an 
actual factor in the life of the boy. Her 
identity was no longer confined to the 
photograph album and the exercise of 
religious faith. 

Marne had finished her schooling and had 
come home to stay ! 


152 


STAYING ALL NIGHT IN 
TOWN 


T HE visits of the itinerant tin peddler, 
the shifting of the seasons, and the 
recurrence of “ first days ” and “ last days” of 
school were not more persistently periodical 
than the requests which Harlow made for 
permission to stay all night with certain of 
the village boys. But his mother had so 
resolutely refused these petitions that he 
had long since ceased to prefer them with 
more than a vague and meagre confidence. 
But, in the face of unfailing refusal, he still 
continued their repetition with a perversity 
of perseverance which he did not display 
in sprouting potatoes, “ raking after,” husk- 
ing corn, or performing other semi-juvenile 
tasks which fell to his lot. The next week 
after Marne’s home-coming from school he 
gave proof of his return to a normal condi- 
tion of thought by breaking the silence of 
the dish-wiping hour with the question : 

153 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“Ma, can’t I go ’n’ stay all night with 
Chan Moyer ? — he ast me to-day.” 

Not until she had finished the sad strain 
she was humming did she answer : 

“ Are you sure he ’s a nice boy ? ” 

“ Sure ! ” was the quick response ; “ he 
don’t swear, an’ he has the golden text per- 
fec’ every Sunday.” 

Harlow’s tone indicated an unfaltering 
conviction that so clear a certificate of 
juvenile morals as this was not to be dis- 
puted. 

“Well,” replied the mother, “ I never be- 
lieved much in boys chasin’ away to stay 
all night, but I guess you may this time. 
You can go home from school with him 
to-morrow night.” 

Then in a softer tone she added, as if by 
way of apology for her startling capitulation : 

“You’ve been a real good boy since 
Marne came home.” 

As Harlow approached the school ground 
the following morning he saw, while still 
afar off, his inseparable friend loitering 
about the cedar posts which stood at the 
entrance into the yard. Ordinarily he would 
have placed the tips of his first and second 
fingers between his teeth and heralded his 
154 


ALL NIGHT IN TOWN 


approach with a shrill whistle of volume 
and penetration out of all proportion to his 
size. But the restraining influence of his 
Sunday clothes, in which he had been 
arrayed in anticipation of staying all night 
with Chan, was sufficient to prevent him 
from giving his customary salute. There- 
fore he advanced unannounced. 

Suddenly the barefooted Chan ceased 
his efforts to pick a marble from the gravel 
sidewalk with his toes, and looked down the 
road in the direction of Harlow. Then he 
indulged in a mystic wave of the hand above 
his head and followed this symbolic gesture 
with a prolonged and high-pitched hoot 
which was broken into reverberating frag- 
ments by plying the palm of his hand 
against his mouth in a series of rapid strokes. 

If Harlow had doubts that the significance 
of his apparel was unrecognized by his pro- 
spective host, he was not long permitted 
to remain in a state of uncertainty on that 
point, for Chan made a quick run for the 
tallest hitching-post, caught the top with 
both hands and with wide-spread legs made 
a clean vault of the object, landing squarely 
on his feet. By these athletic tokens a 
mutual understanding, more complete than 
155 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


words could have defined, was established. 
Although conversation seemed superfluous, 
the delighted Chan ventured a single word 
of welcome — and that word was: 

“ Bully ! ” 

Although the presence of his Sunday 
clothes, coupled with the recollection of his 
mother’s admonitions concerning their care, 
prevented Harlow from joining in the games 
of Pom-pom-pull-away, Ante-ante-over, and 
One-old-cat, in which all of his companions 
were engaged during the intermissions, he 
found consolation for this hardship in the 
fact that the unusual character of his attire 
attracted the glances of his schoolmates and 
was universally recognized as an indication 
that his social engagements were of an ex- 
traordinary character. 

Never had the tap of the teacher’s dis- 
missal bell — which put a tinkling period to 
the drowsy school day — sounded more me- 
lodious to Harlow than on this particular 
afternoon. He dashed into the entry with 
the fury of an Apache attacking an emigrant 
train, snatched his dinner-pail from its hook, 
and joined Chan in a race down the bare 
and foot-beaten path to the entrance posts. 
As they came near the blacksmith shop, 
156 


ALL NIGHT IN TOWN 


ringing with the anvil’s cheerful clatter, 
he caught the smell of soft-coal smoke. It 
seemed indefinably metropolitan, the very 
aroma of village life. 

“ Stump y’ t’ a game of quaits ! ” ex- 
claimed Chan. The terse challenge was ac- 
cepted and the horseshoes were tossed and 
retossed at the iron spikes set in the cin- 
dered space in front of the shop. 

“ Oh, you could n’t get a ringer in a dog’s- 
age ! ” finally commented Chan with the 
ingenuous brutality of boyhood. “An’ it’s 
most supper time, too.” 

Their pilgrimage past the postoffice and 
around the corner to the Moyer home was 
marked with various mysterious boyish an- 
tics. They executed violent and irregular 
straddles in order to step only upon alter- 
nating boards and stones of the sidewalk, 
played passing tattoos upon the picket 
fences by holding bobbing sticks against the 
uneven surface of the latter, and touched 
with outstretched hands every tree that 
shaded the quiet street. 

The splendor of the strange dining-table 
and its service awed the small guest into a 
painful solemnity, aggravated by an occa- 
sional impulse, hardly controlled, to break 
157 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


into a mirthless laughter. He gazed in 
undisguised wonder at the softly shaded 
hanging lamp depending from the ceiling 
and marvelled at the magnificence of the 
silver-plated knives and forks and the un- 
familiar butter “ pats.” 

After supper they stole softly into the 
general store, bought two striped sticks of 
peppermint, and seated themselves upon 
cracker boxes. From his lowly place near 
the dangling feet of a teamster, who was 
perched upon the counter, Harlow listened 
to the loud-voiced banter of the loafers and 
inhaled the aroma from pails of fine- cut to- 
bacco, barrels of Muscovado sugar, a keg of 
salt mackerel, mottled bars of castile soap, 
canisters of tea and coffee, and an open box 
of wrinkled and sticky prunes. There was 
something commercial and almost foreign 
in this composite smell, mingled with the 
bragging and worldly-wise talk of the men 
which made the boy feel that the night had 
found him far from home and among strange 
surroundings. 

Suddenly the swift and muffled patter of 
bare feet along the platform in front of the 
store caused Chan to exclaim : 

“ They ’re playin’ I spy. Let ’s us ! ” 

158 


ALL NIGHT IN TOWN 


A moment later they were among a 
squad of scurrying youngsters clambering 
into the deep shadows which shrouded the 
dusty beams and braces of the horse sheds 
back of the church. As they waited with 
hushed breath for the signal to rush for 
“ gool ” at the old liberty pole on the cor- 
ner, the soft nocturnal stillness oppressed 
him. He ceased to care whether or not he 
would 44 get in free ” and escape the penalty 
of being 44 It.” Even the near presence of 
his companions in hiding failed to relieve 
his growing sense of loneliness or to relax 
the tense lump which began to swell in his 
throat. 

Before the scramble for 44 home run ” 
emptied the cavernous sheds, he admitted, 
in the secret depths of his heart, that he was 
homesick to see his mother, and that if he 
might only get back to his own chamber he 
would never again ask to stay all night with 
one of the village boys. 

Willingly would he have braved the 
homeward trip in the dark, and the shadowy 
terrors of the hollow at the turn of the 
road, but he could frame no excuse which 
would be accepted by Chan and his mother 
as a reasonable ground for so sudden a 
159 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


departure. An hour later, when he and 
Chan bounded into their bed, his yearnings 
for home were not allayed, and he fell asleep 
cherishing the resolve that anyway he would 
get up early, steal quietly from the house, and 
run home before his bedfellow awakened. 

But when he was aroused from his slum- 
bers by a vigorous pillow-pounding at the 
hands of Chan, and caught the ascending 
incense of the cooking breakfast, his vesper 
penitence had vanished, and he felt that, 
after all, he had had a good time in town 
and would sometime come again. 


160 


SYMPATHIZING WITH MAME 

I N making her adjustment to the routine 
of family life sister Marne suffered no 
fall from the high estate which she had so 
long held in the brotherly adoration of Har- 
low. While his belief in the actuality of 
her existence was no longer dependent upon 
the testimony of the photograph album, the 
arrival of dainty and delicately perfumed 
letters, and the familiar repetition of her 
name in the household councils, he con- 
tinued to regard her as a mysterious, mar- 
vellous and altogether superior being. The 
fact that he had been for several years com- 
pelled to accept her upon faith and had 
classed his “ sister in Cincinnati ” in the 
same category of venerated and intangible 
absentees as that to which his “ Saviour in 
Heaven ” belonged, may have done much 
to sustain this habitual attitude of thought 
after he became accustomed to her daily 
presence in the house. 

ii 161 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


But there was an inscrutable something 
about Maine which defied familiarity and 
held itself unspotted from the world to 
which the other members of the family be- 
longed. Although she shared the labors of 
the kitchen, Harlow felt that she was not, 
like his mother, a part of the place. Her 
most commonplace and menial tasks were 
done in an incidental way, as if she were not 
thinking of them and they were really no 
part of her life. 

While directly conscious that there was a 
marked difference between Marne and the 
other young women of her age, his admira- 
tion of her was confirmed by the attitude of 
the entire community. He had not failed 
to notice that at church men glanced at her 
with a silent and respectful deference, while 
the women followed her movements with 
persistent and ill-concealed stares. At the 
first church sociable which she attended 
Harlow’s pride received a sudden inflation 
as he overheard Jess’ Perkins, the organist, 
who was spoken of among the young women 
as the “prettiest girl in town,” remark to 
her nearest companion, as Marne entered 
the room : 

“ Is n’t she stylish, though ! That dress 
162 


SYMPATHIZING WITH MAME 


was made in Cincinnati — I ’ll bet on that. 
But they do say she mostly cuts and fits her 
own clothes. I ’m going to have a new 
dress next week. Let’s get up a little 
closer so ’s I can see just how that ’s made 
in the front.” 

This feminine testimonial to the distinc- 
tive quality of Marne’s attire both pleased 
and angered Harlow. He felt that it was 
no small thing to have his sister’s appearance 
and clothes admired by Jess’ Perkins, but 
he was conscious of a deep resentment at the 
latter’s audacity in presuming deliberately to 
copy the clothes which gave Marne so differ- 
ent an appearance from that of the other 
girls. It seemed almost like robbing her of 
something that belonged alone to her, or 
like an attempt, on the part of the organist, 
to change her own black hair to the soft, 
iridescent gold of the long, heavy braid 
which fell far below Marne’s waist. What 
right, he asked himself, had any one to try 
to be like his sister from Cincinnati ? 

Only once since Marne’s return from 
school had Harlow been invited into the 
front chamber, which he and his mother had 
arranged for her home-coming. He had then 
thought it the most beautiful room he had 
163 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


ever seen, but as he brought her a pitcher 
of water and placed it on the wash-stand he 
was astonished at the transformation which 
had been wrought in the appearance of the 
place. It seemed to have blossomed with 
daintiness, and he did not wonder that 
Marne spent so many of her afternoons in 
this white and quiet room, which was 
reached by passing through his own cham- 
ber at the head of the stairs. The curtains 
no longer hung stiffly as his mother had 
left them, but were looped back with deli- 
cate blue ribbon. Photographs of her school 
friends, and pencil drawings which she made 
in the academy were scattered about in neat 
confusion. The atmosphere of feminine 
daintiness awed him, and he felt that it was 
no place for a boy. 

At times and particularly during the 
evenings, when all was still save the crickets 
and katydids, he wished that Marne would 
talk to him and tell all about Cincinnati. 
But whenever he ventured a question upon 
this point a dreamy mist appeared to gather 
in her eyes and her replies were brief and 
vague. Then she would sit very still, look- 
ing silently away into the night shadows 
and leaving him to wonder why it should 
161 

























































































* 





































































































































* 












































■ 


















































































































, 










































“Suddenly straightened up and listened intently.” 




SYMPATHIZING WITH MAME 


make her sad to speak of her visits to the 
Zoo, and East Walnut Hills, or to tell of 
how the big city house in Vine Street 
looked. 

44 Some time,” she said on one of these 
occasions, 44 1 11 tell you all about it, but not 
— not to-night.” 

He felt rather than heard the unsteadi- 
ness in her voice, and he was instinctively 
conscious that she wished to be alone. Her 
white hand rested upon his knee, as they 
sat together upon the horse block, and he 
almost yielded to the impulse to reach out 
and cover it with his palm. But instead, he 
turned quickly away and went to his bed. 
As he heard Marne’s footsteps on the stairs 
he turned his face toward the wall, and 
feigned sleep until she closed the thin door 
between their rooms. 

A moment later he suddenly straightened 
up and listened intently. Yes ; he could 
surely hear the sound of sobs. Marne was 
crying ! This conviction brought him a 
strange and indefinable terror. The thought 
that tears were possible to this beautiful and 
self-contained being had never occurred to 
him. With laborious caution, in order to 
avoid creaking the bed-cords, he slowly slid 
165 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


to the floor and tiptoed toward the partition 
door. Then he crouched and listened. He 
had made no mistake. The sobs, although 
muffled, were plainly audible. 

A sense of intense longing to break through 
the door and go in and ask Marne what was 
troubling her seized him. But it was fol- 
lowed by an overwhelming realization that 
he was only a boy , — - the most awkward, 
helpless and undesirable of all earth’s creat- 
ures, — and that he could do nothing to 
appease Marne’s sorrow save to keep away 
from her! For a few moments he stood 
beside the door, shivering with sympathetic 
excitement. Then he returned to his bed, 
hugged the pillow close to his face, and 
cried until he fell asleep. 

And the chief thorn of his grief was 
that Marne would never know how bad he 
felt for her, and how much he longed to 
help her. 


166 




u 


suffered to have his hair shingled. 









THE SMOKE OF INCENSE 

“ AT" OU ’RE goin’ to Fredony in the morn- 
JL in’ with your pa and have your hair 
cut in a barber-shop,” announced Harlow’s 
mother, as she drew her darning-basket 
from the chimney cupboard and thrust a 
dried gourd into the frayed toe of a home- 
knit sock. From his earliest recollection he 
had been impressed, upon periodical occa- 
sions, into a high chair close by the kitchen 
window, to suffer the inevitable tortures of 
having his hair “ shingled.” The guardedly 
commonplace tones in which his mother 
announced the sudden discontinuance of 
this economical and time-honored practice 
did not conceal from the boy a certain 
intuitive knowledge that some family event 
of startling importance was hidden behind 
so radical a change in domestic policy. He 
was also sure that his mother was only 
waiting for a question which would make 
it easy for her to explain the reasons for 
167 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


so astonishing a departure from established 
custom. 

“ Are the shears broke ? ” he asked. 

“No,” she answered; “but Dexter Put- 
nam and his wife from Ohio are goin’ to 
visit here for a week. He an’ your pa used 
to be boys together, but he ’s rich now and 
his wife ’s a stylish city lady. I ’d almost 
rather die than go through it, but there 
ain’t no way to get out of it as I can see, 
so we Ve got to kind of fix up an’ do the 
best we can. But I ain’t a bit of heart for 
it. If ’t was n’t for Marne an’ her knowin’ 
’bout how to do for city folks I guess I ’d 
sink right through the floor this blessed 
minnit. An’ that makes me think ; we ’ve 
got to quit callin’ her Marne. Jess’ Perkins 
says it’s countrified an’ not fit for a child 
in short dresses, to say nothing of a young 
lady. Besides, ’t ain’t her rightful name, 
anyway. So we ’ve got to begin callin’ her 
Mary right away, so ’s we can get used to it 
before the Putnams come. Your pa knows 
about it, an’ if you say Marne before the 
comp’ny I ’m afraid he ’ll punish you. Then 
I ’m goin’ to have her tell you how to act 
at the table. I guess it’ll do us all good 
and make us more like town folks. I don’t 
168 


THE SMOKE OF INCENSE 


care so much about such things on your 
pa’s account or mine, but I want my chil- 
dren to be brought up so they needn’t be 
ashamed.” 

The impending barber-shop hair-cut and 
the mysterious revolution in family manners 
filled Harlow with strange misgivings and 
a sense of hopeless responsibility. But the 
excitement of the prospective presence in 
their home of a rich man from Ohio and of 
a stylish city woman prevented him from 
falling into abject depression in view of the 
awful reformative epoch which was soon 
to overtake his table manners and his be- 
havior in general. He also took hope from 
the unwonted cheerfulness of his father, 
who sang hymns as the old horse pulled 
them slowly over the gray hills. As they 
reached the outskirts of the town, the father 
remarked : 

“We’ll go straight to the barber-shop 
and get your hair tended to first thing.” 

There was one moment in which the 
barber’s prospective victim halted between 
a shameless exposure of his ignorance and 
the possibility of finding himself in the 
grasp of unknown terrors. He chose the 
former course and said : 

169 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“ Pa.’’ 

“ Well?" 

“ ’T won’t hurt none, will it ? ” 

The father swayed backward and forward 
in laughter which shook the buggy, and 
made his eyes swim with tears. Finally 
when his merriment had subsided a little, 
he replied : 

“ They won’t no more ’n lift the hair right 
off yer head.” 

But in spite of the evident irony in his 
answer, there were lingering misgivings in 
the mind of the boy as he took his seat in 
the strangely brilliant and luxurious shop, 
and his cheeks showed spots of white as the 
black barber rolled his eyes, gave the glisten- 
ing shears a vicious snap, and asked the 
father : 

“ Which ear first, suh ? ” 

Before the ordeal was over, however, the 
boy was grinning responsively at his image 
in the glass. When his head was wet with 
bay rum and the barber laid his forefinger 
along the edge of the hair above either 
temple and, by a clever sweep of the brush, 
gave a smooth, jaunty, and well-turned 
effect to the whole head, the owner of the 
latter experienced a thrill of genuine self- 
170 


THE SMOKE OF INCENSE 


satisfaction. He felt ready to meet the rich 
man from Ohio and his “ cityfied ” wife. 

In the days before the arrival of “ the 
company ” he conscientiously addressed 
Marne as “ Mary,” but the grin which 
wreathed his lips, and the blush that came 
to his cheeks told of the conscious awkward- 
ness which the effort cost. And when she 
gave him his first lesson in table manners, 
the blush burned up to the very roots of 
his hair. His embarrassment was not too 
great, however, to prevent him asking : 

“Does a feller have t’ stick his little 
finger out like you ’ve got yours ? ” 

The evening when the stage brought the 
Putnams to the door was crisp and cool, and 
a bright fire burned in the parlor stove, the 
polished surface of which gave forth a pecu- 
liar smell inseparably associated in Harlow’s 
mind with company occasions. He tried 
to realize that this fire would be kept 
burning day and evening for a whole week, 
but such a protracted season of gayety 
never had been known in the household 
before. While he stood in the kitchen sur- 
veying the loaded table and wondering if 
his mother would set out such a supper 
every evening of the Putnams’ stay, the 
171 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


stage drew up before the front gate and 
the bustle of welcome began. He helped 
Steve carry in the satchels, trunk, and 
carpet-bags, speculating upon whether they 
contained anything for him. Then, gently 
pushed forward at the points of his moth- 
er’s fingers, he was, for the first time, reg- 
ularly introduced, “ like grown-up folks.” 

Owing to much sisterly coaching he passed 
through the ordeal without stepping on the 
toes of the guests or offering his left hand. 
The splendor of Mrs. Putnam’s apparel and 
jewelry was dazzling, but did not blind him 
to the attractiveness of the warm biscuits 
and honey. When all save his mother 
adjourned to the parlor he vaguely wished 
he had not eaten quite so much and that 
he did not feel so sleepy. 

On his way to the parlor the father paused 
at the chimney cupboard, took from its 
shelf a small package wrapped in tissue 
paper and carried it to the centre-table. As 
he slowly and clumsily removed the softly 
crackling paper the lips of the boy parted in 
gaping astonishment, for within were a dozen 
long, brown cigars. Nor did the jaws close 
when the rich man from Ohio drew forth 
his pocket-knife, cut the tip from one of the 
172 


THE SMOKE OF INCENSE 


cigars, struck a match upon the sole of his 
boot, and then leisurely lighted the Havana. 
As Harlow caught the first faint whiff of the 
smoke that curled from the glowing end of 
the cigar and from the lips of the smoker it 
seemed to him that he had never before 
smelled so delicious a perfume. 

It was the odorous incense of the great 
outside world burning right in their own 
parlor ! 

He was not sure that it was not wicked, 
but he knew that it was very pleasant. As 
his eye followed the blue wreaths and spirals 
he began to dream of the future and to pic- 
ture the delights of being a man — a rich 
man, with nothing to do but go visiting, and 
of daring to do those things that were almost 
wicked. But suddenly the eyes of the 
father caught sight of the open-mouthed 
boy. The next moment the stern paternal 
voice exclaimed : 

“You go off to bed. It’s time small 
boys was asleep.” 

With cheeks burning with shame Harlow 
slunk from the room, resolved never again 
to face “the comp’ny.” The roughness of 
the command cut all the more deeply be- 
cause, on the journey to Fredonia, his father 
173 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


had seemed so companionable. He fell 
asleep smarting with resentment and more 
than half determined to run away from 
home. The pleasure of the week’s novel 
excitement had been cruelly blasted at the 
outset. 


174 


MIS’ TOTMAN’S BABY 


“ T T ARK ! ” suddenly exclaimed Har- 

O low’s mother, uplifting a dripping 
and parboiled hand from the steaming suds 
of her dishpan. The gesture secured instant 
silence and she opened the kitchen door so 
that she might hear with greater distinctness 
the strokes of the village church bell. 

“ One — two — three — four — five — six,” 
she counted. Then came a prolonged 
pause. 

“ It ’s a woman ! I wonder who on 
earth — ” but her soliloquy was interrupted 
by another dolorous peal from the distant 
steeple. 

“ Forty ! ” she announced when the last 
stroke had spent its dismal pulsations and 
died away into a shivering stillness which 
struck to the boy’s heart a sense of sudden 
and chilling terror. The moment before he 
had been brimming with spontaneous, un- 
thinking happiness, gayly whistling “ Dandy 
175 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


Jim o’ Caroline.” Now the air was vibrant 
with tidings of death. How clearly the 
clang of each stroke proclaimed “D-e-a-t-h ! ” 
and the diminishing sound-swells repeated 
“ D-e-a-t-h ! d-e-a-t-h ! d-e-a-t-h ! ” 

“ Merciful goodness ! ” exclaimed his 
mother as she dropped her upraised hand. 
“ That ’s Just Jane Totman’s age — one year 
younger than I be. It ’s queer I did n’t 
remember her — her — condition.” 

“Why, it can’t be Mis’ Totman,” confi- 
dently asserted Harlow. “ I seen her yester- 
day hangin’ out clothes on the line back of 
her house.” 

“ There ’s a good many dreadful things in 
this world that you don’t understand,” was 
his mother’s sadly mysterious reply. “You 
finish these dishes while I throw a shawl 
over my head and run up there. If that 
family ever needed somebody to do for ’em 
it ’s now. You can come for me ’bout six, 
but first set on some cold meat and make a 
kettle of hasty puddin’ for your pa and 
Steve.” She vanished into the bedroom 
and a moment later the boy saw the flutter 
of her Paisley shawl as she passed through 
the front bars and went scudding down the 
road in the direction of the Totmans’. 

176 


MIS’ TOTMAN’S BABY 


Long after she had gone he could hear, it 
seemed to him, the haunting, insistent echoes 
of the bell. Even the clock in the sitting- 
room struck the hours in a doleful tone 
which he had never before noticed. If 
Marne were only there he would go to her 
and get her to talk to him about the Zoo, 
the theatre, the school, and other wonderful 
things she had seen in Cincinnati ; but that 
morning she had gone to Fredonia with Let 
Bascom, and they were to stay the week with 
a girl friend at the young ladies’ seminary. 
He felt that the afternoon before him would 
be longer and drearier than any Sunday he 
had ever known. 

The methods which usually afforded him 
relief from gloomy reflections were vigor- 
ously resorted to, but failed to charm his 
thoughts from dwelling upon the mournful 
tidings proclaimed by the church bell. He 
attempted to interest himself in the fortunes 
of 4 4 The Boy Hunters,” but even the ex- 
ploits of the heroic Basil could not hold his 
attention. Then his gun was brought from 
his chamber and he shot squawking bluejays 
as they sounded their insolent cries from the 
scantlings of the corn crib. But the cheer- 
ful crack of his firearm was impotent to 
177 


12 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


arouse him from brooding upon the dark 
problem of death which haunted him like his 
shadow. He had never dared think much 
about 4 4 those things ” before ; now it seemed 
to him that he must face the dreaded issue 
squarely. Before the long afternoon had 
dragged to its close he abandoned himself 
hopelessly to theological speculations and 
wretchedness. 

When the time came to go for his mother 
he set out with the willingness born of des- 
peration, but with determination not to 
enter the stricken house. His timid knock 
was answered by his mother, who was carry- 
ing a shapeless bundle from which issued 
peevish gurgles and cries. 

“I ’ll be ready in a minute,” she said as 
she closed the door quickly, soon reappear- 
ing with her shawl over her head. They 
walked half the homeward way in silence 
before Harlow summoned the courage to 
ask : 

44 That Mis’ Totman’s baby ? ” 

“ Yes, the poor motherless thing ! Good- 
ness only knows what ’ll become of it, now 
she ’s gone.” 

44 She ’s dead, then ? ” he asked. 

44 Yes ; she never saw the little thing. 

178 



“A shapeless bundle from which issued peevish 
gurgles and cries.” 












» 

























* 








* 


































* 























































































MIS’ TOTMAFS BABY 


But it’s just as sweet a baby as was ever 
born ! ” replied his mother, drawing the 
shawl more closely about her face. They 
were nearing the bars when he blurted out 
the question : 

“ Ma, why does God let such awful things 
happen ? ” 

He waited for the answer, but it did not 
come. Perhaps the shawl, which covered 
her ears like a hood, had prevented her from 
hearing. 

Two days later, as they drove to the 
funeral of Mrs. Totman, Harlow’s mother 
remarked : 

“You needn’t try to slip out into the 
horse sheds along with the boys this time. 
It ain’t respectful ; an’, besides, I want you 
to hear Elder Jennings’ remarks.” 

Finding the customary avenue of escape 
closed he meekly submitted, and settled 
stiffly into one of the seats reserved for the 
neighbors of the afflicted family. 

In tones of awful solemnity the minister 
began to read the text : 

“ The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh 
away; Blessed be the name of the Lord.” 
Then he leaned one arm heavily upon the 
big Bible and applied himself with com- 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


mendable courage and directness to the task 
of justifying the “ act of Providence ” which, 
by a single stroke, had brought to the world 
a helpless babe, and “ cut off in her prime 
the mother that bore it and would have 
been its tenderest protector.” 

Harlow was glad that he had not been 
allowed to retreat to the horse sheds, for 
now the questions which had weighed so 
heavily upon him since he called at Tot- 
man’s for his mother were to be answered, 
and with the authority of a minister of the 
gospel ! The preacher did not hesitate to 
describe the affliction of the Totmans as 
a direct and predetermined act of God, 
designed to accomplish a “ wise and benefi- 
cent purpose.” He admonished the sobbing 
children and the bereaved husband to profit 
by the “ chastening of God,” and spoke of 
the “ departed mother ” as a “ beacon light 
set on the heavenly shore to draw the spirits 
of her loved ones into closer union with 
Him whose loving care sustains the heart 
in the deepest affliction.” 

Although Harlow felt that he must be 
very wicked not to accept this explanation 
of the problem presented by the dead 
mother and the living babe, his heart was 
180 


MIS’ TOTMAN’S BABY 


strongly beset with rebellious doubts. These 
grew upon him as the procession dispersed 
at the grave and the neighbors returned to 
their homes, exchanging low-voiced com- 
ments on the degrees of grief manifested 
by “Totman and the children.” 

“ What ’s the trouble now, son ? ” ex- 
claimed Steve as he entered the horse barn 
an hour or two after the family had re- 
turned from the funeral and found Harlow 
shaking like a mould of jelly. There was 
a cheery, companionable tone in the hired 
man’s voice which overcame the boy’s shame 
at having been “ caught crying.” 

“ It ’s about Mis’ Totman — an’ God ! ” 
answered the boy. “ I s’pose it ’s wicked 
for me to feel so, but it seems to me that 
Elder Jennings made God out to be awful 
cruel — crueler than any man I ever read 
about. Who ’d kill a woman the minute 
her baby ’s born ? He said it was somehow 
goin’ to make Mr. Totman and the children 
better — but I don’t want to be better if 
my ma ’ s got to die to do it. I-I-I ’d almost 
hate God if ’twas my own ma instead of 
Bud Totman’s ! ” 

This outburst was followed by sobs and 
sniffles which revealed to Steve the tragic 
181 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


strain under which the small heretic was 
laboring. After a moment of thoughtful 
silence the hired man said : 

“ Look a-here, son ! ’T ain’t a light matter 
to trifle with a mother’s religious teachin’s 
— but I’ll say this: You just stop worryin’ 
’bout God ! If God was guilty of half the 
things they try to put on Him he’d be 
worse ’n Beelzebub. Talk about Him takin’ 
away a mother from a little baby an’ a 
family of young children in order to make 
’em love Him more ! It ’s enough to make 
a man froth at the mouth. But 1 must n’t 
let myself git started on this line. Just you 
stick to God , an’ if you hear anything about 
Him that would n’t be kind an’ decent in a 
human, don’t you believe it. I don’t know 
why ’twas Mis’ Totman died an’ left her 
baby, but I ’m mighty sure it was n’t God’s 
doin’s. She just died — that’s all. An’ 
there ain’t a person on earth that can an- 
swer your questions ; but you ’d just better 
never mind ’em and have a good time like 
a boy should.” 

Soothed by this unpretending philosophy, 
Harlow dried his tears and went into the 
house for supper. It was Steve’s night to 
go to town, but instead of adhering to this 

182 


MIS’ TOTMAN S BABY 


time-honored custom, he took down the 
checker-board from the chimney closet and 
played so poorly that his small antagon- 
ist “ skunked ” him for three successive 
games. 


183 


MOTHERS SICK-HEADACHE 
DAY 

W HEY Harlow came down the stair- 
way from his chamber and entered 
the kitchen, the third day after Mrs. Tot- 
man’s funeral, he saw his father wielding 
the broom and heard the splutter of eggs 
frying in the spider. His mother was not 
there. In her place was an atmosphere of 
helpless masculine discomfort, which found 
a concrete and pathetic embodiment in the 
tall, ungainly figure making vigorous attacks 
upon the ashes which lurked in the crevices 
of the hearth. Each spiteful jab and un- 
compromising sweep of the broom sent up 
a choking ashen cloud. Although Harlow 
knew, from dismal and frequent experience, 
the domestic condition which these tokens 
betrayed, he felt bound to ask the question : 
“ Where ’s Ma ? ” 

“ She ’s a-bed — got one of her tumble 
sick-headaches,” was the doleful and half- 
184 






leaned the broom against the stove and attempted to 
turn the eggs with the narrow blade.” 


SICK-HEAD A CHE DAY 


irritated answer. “ She said not to wake 
Mame, ’cause she was out late last night 
to the Town Line sociable. So we’ll have 
to shift fer ourselves this mornin’.” Then, 
as he leaned the broom against the stove 
and attempted to turn the eggs with the 
narrow blade of a steel knife, he said : “ I 
hope t’ goodness she ’ll come out of it before 
another day.” 

“ It ” had so often occurred as to have 
become recognized as a family institution, 
taking rank with threshing, hog-killing, rag- 
coloring, and other reliable periodical occa- 
sions which were accepted as inevitable 
talismans marking the passage of time. 
Everything seemed to 46 go wrong ” on these 
sick-headache days, and the present one was 
not an exception to the rule. The tall pail 
of buckwheat pancake batter which had 
been “ set to rise ” on the warming-oven, 
had become unwontedly active and over- 
flowed the rear portions of the stove in a 
white porous deposit ; the batch of salt- 
rising bread inside the oven had displayed 
the same perversely erratic tendency, and 
the whole domestic machinery appeared 
hopelessly out of joint. Breakfast was eaten 
in cheerless and depressing silence, and 
185 


THE COUNTRY BOY 

when the father pushed back his plate he 
said : 

“ You ’ll have to look out for ma ’til 
Mame gits up. Keep plenty of water in 
the tea-kettle for hot cloths. The mustard ’s 
on the second shelf of the pantry. I ’ve got 
to meet Tom Dye at the caucus and bargain 
for thorn farrer cows.” 

Before this, the first symptoms of a re- 
appearance of the sick-headache demon had 
been sufficient to move Harlow to a precip- 
itate and cowardly retreat. But he justified 
his action on the ground that he could do 
her no good by “ hanging ’round,” and that 
his room was better than his company. 
Now, however, he must bravely face the 
stern demands of the hour and “ do for her ” 
until he should be relieved by Mame. 

After washing the breakfast dishes he 
concluded that the dreaded entry into the 
sick-room could be no longer deferred. 
Balancing awkwardly on his tiptoes he 
opened the sitting-room door and then 
paused to listen. The moans and deep- 
drawn sighs which came from the east bed- 
room struck him with a sense of terror. 
The cloud of Mrs. Totman’s funeral had 
not wholly lifted its black pall from his 
186 


SICK-HEADACHE DAY 


heart, and the groans of his mother brought 
back the dismal picture with redoubled dis- 
tinctness. 

He was almost afraid to proceed and take 
the first look at the sufferer. His heart 
thumped with well-nigh audible throbs as a 
deep silence followed the expression of pain. 
Then he knew that he must go forward, and 
he picked his steps across the rag-carpet 
more softly than ever before. When he 
reached the big rocking-chair he settled 
down into its chintz-covered depths, limp as 
the dish-cloth which he had just hung over 
the oven-door. 

His mother lay upon her back, a white 
cloth folded across her eyes, and her brown 
hair, always so smooth and glossy, straggling 
over the pillow in stringy confusion. The 
air of the room was heavy with the smell of 
herbs and pungent with the odor of cam- 
phor. About the floor and bed were scat- 
tered shoes and garments, while in a chair, 
close by her pillow, were heaped the cloths 
with which her head had been bound during 
the night. 

The strange disorder of the place sent 
dismay to his soul, but the partially cov- 
ered face and the awful stillness of his 
187 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


mother caused him to start from his chair 
and watch the patchwork spread about her 
breast. It moved. With the assurance 
that she was still breathing he again settled 
into the chair. 

A feeling of fearful and overmastering 
helplessness took possession of him as he 
sat there at the foot of the bed, his eyes 
wandering from the pallid features of his 
mother to the faded array of ancestral pho- 
tographs which hung in oval frames above 
the headboard. 

Suddenly it came to him that all these 
persons were dead ; Mrs. Totman was dead ; 
all the grown up people since Adam, with 
the exception of a few old folks and those 
who were getting old, were dead. He com- 
pared the living with the mighty multi- 
tude of those who had passed into the 
black shadow of the grave, and the num- 
ber seemed infinitely small. Perhaps his 
mother might get well this time — she al- 
ways had, and his father did not seem to 
be badly scared — but sometime she must 
die. And so would Marne and his father 
and Steve, and then he would be left alone 
in the world. And nothing — nothing — 
that could be done would help it any ! 

188 


SICK-HEADACHE DAY 


Softly he turned about in the chair and 
slid down until his knees touched the floor 
and his face was buried in the chintz cushion. 
Silently, but with an inner frenzy of earnest- 
ness, he prayed that his mother might get 
well this time. His faith could not compass 
more than this limited petition. As he 
arose from his knees his eyes caught the 
motto, worked in perforated cardboard with 
red, green, and yellow zephyrs, which hung 
above the bureau. It proclaimed the Scrip- 
tural assurance that “ God is love.” 

A hopeless, lethargic conviction that 
these words were not true stole into the boy’s 
consciousness. He had been taught that 
God made all that was made. It had been 
the Golden Text of the Sunday-school les- 
son ; he had learned it by heart and Elder 
Jennings, his Sunday-school teacher, and 
his mother had expounded its truthfulness 
without reservation. In his paroxysm of 
ingenuous doubt the boy wondered why 
God had made headaches for his mother to 
have ; why there was so much more of pain 
and suffering and death in the world than 
joy. And if God did n’t make these awful 
things, who did ? 

He was very sure that if his mother had 
189 


THE COUNTRY BOY 

made the world she would have left out sick- 
headaches, and that she would not have had 
any sin or death in it. There would have 
been no need for boys to be afraid in any 
world that his mother would have made. 
In fancy he tried to realize the joys of living 
in a world where all of these things were 
unknown and where one might be truly 
happy and know that it was going to “ last 
right on,” just as in heaven, only without 
having to die to get there. But this flight 
of imagination only made the gloom and 
despair of the present seem more awful by 
contrast. He felt that he could never be 
happy again, and that there was no use try- 
ing to do anything. His eye traced each 
curve and wrinkle of his mother’s face and 
he resolved that anyway he would always 
stay at home with his mother, take care of 
her, and shield her from everything hard 
that he could. Yes ; he would give up 
going to the Rockies to hunt grizzlies with 
Steve — everything ! He would sacrifice 
all just to stand by her and help to make 
it easier for her. 

In the midst of these resolves she startled 
him by lifting the damp cloth from her eyes 
and exclaiming in a strained voice : 

190 


SICK-HEADACHE DAY 


“ Why, I ’ve been asleep and the pain ’s 
broke ! Ask Mame to make me a little 
gruel. An take this old cloth away.” 

As he reached for the cloth she closed her 
hand for a moment about his own. And 
for a reward he drew her in the big rocking- 
chair before the sitting-room stove and paid 
her awkward attentions while she sat wrapped 
in quilts and dreaming with half-shut eyes. 


191 


MAME’S BEAU 


W HO ’S coming ? ” asked Harlow, as 
he flung an armful of sticks into 
the woodbox, opened the cellar door, and 
took down the bootjack. 

“ Why ? What makes you think — ” 

But his mother’s counter-question was cut 
off with a contemptuous interruption : 

“ Huh ! Can’t fool me ; you ’ve got a 
fire in the parlor stove. I smelled it the 
minute I come in.” 

“ Well,” quickly returned his mother, 
“you needn’t go poking in there. You 
ain’t wanted. Marne ’s got comp’ny.” 

Harlow returned the bootjack to its nail, 
closed the cellar door, and walked silently 
into the well-room. The realization that 
Marne had “ got a beau ” was a blow which 
made his throat swell with grief, anger, and 
a chilling sensation of loneliness. Ever 
since the night when he had heard her sob- 
bing in her room he had made constant and 
192 


MAME’S BEAU 


awkward attempts to show his devotion. 
Once he had been accepted as her escort to 
a school exhibition, and she had chatted in 
vivacious company tones with him during the 
long drive to and from the entertainment. 

Her sociability on this occasion was so 
marked a departure from her usual reserve 
that he felt himself the recipient of a proud 
distinction. But in their daily contact she 
was still, to his mind, a rare, beautiful, and 
inscrutable being, and he was quite as far 
from understanding her as when he had 
accepted her existence on faith and the evi- 
dence of the photograph album. That this 
“ sister from Cincinnati,” whom he had, in 
earliest childhood, held as little lower than 
his “ Saviour in Heaven,” should become the 
object of sentimental attentions on the part 
of any young man of the neighborhood ex- 
ceeded all possibilities of fate which his 
imagination had devised. 

It could not be that Marne had any desire 
for “ gentleman company ! ” Of that he 
was certain. Why had she not retreated to 
the sanctity of her chamber, leaving her 
mother to get rid of the fellow ? And who 
was this man “ sitting up ” with Marne in 
the parlor? 

13 


193 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


Of only one thing was Harlow sure. He 
wished to do something wicked. But even 
the bitterness of his wrath did not carry him 
beyond a certain prudential regard for his 
soul’s future. In former moments of deep 
reflection upon matters of religion and con- 
duct he had often thought that if he were 
ever moved to language which came danger- 
ously near profanity his choice of oaths 
would be, “ Damned ! ” This term, he rea- 
soned, was not cursing, but simply the ex- 
pression of the opinion that the person or 
thing referred to was already resting under 
a curse. It seemed to shift the responsibility 
upon God in a very comfortable way. 

When this thought recurred to him he 
had already reached the back steps. With 
a swift swing of his foot he gave the slop- 
pail a shattering kick, and amid the clatter 
of its falling staves and hoops his lips ex- 
ploded the one word, “ Damned ! ” He 
knew he had done wrong, — and he was 
glad of it! 

Then he went softly around the “ L ” to 
the front of the upright, caught hold of 
the window-sill, stepped carefully upon the 
edge of the banking, and placed his eyes to 
a thin crack between the shutters of the 
194 





“When Marne entertained her first beau.” 


MAME’S BEAU 


green blinds. Sitting in one of the hair- 
cloth parlor chairs was Ben Lord. Half of 
the family photograph album rested upon 
his knee, while Marne supported the other 
end of the book and slowly turned its stiff 
leaves. The light from the lamp on the 
centre table fell upon the back of the 
young man’s head, and his hair glistened 
with a brightness which told unmistakably 
of liberal anointings of hen’s-oil scented 
with geranium-leaves. 

Above the edge of his paper collar the 
hairy, freckled expanse of neck was creased 
with wrinkles like those which Harlow had 
seen gathered in front of Old Ben’s yoke- 
bow when Steve plowed the South Forty 
with the oxen. And this Ben Lord, who 
was sitting so close to Marne, was spoken 
of by the men of the community as “the 
best hand in the neighborhood at doctoring 
up a sick critter ! ” At the last Christmas 
tree in the church he had been playfully 
presented with a bottle of ill-smelling cow 
medicine bearing the big placard, “For 
Ben- Aloes.” That this fellow should pre- 
sume to keep company with Marne was 
more than Harlow could endure. 

Had he not prolonged his vigils, the 
195 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


jealous spy might have spared himself the 
sharpest thrust that his brotherly pride and 
affection received during the evening when 
Marne entertained her first beau. But, un- 
happily, Harlow kept his eyes to the crack 
of the blinds just long enough to see Marne 
look suddenly up at her caller and smile 
with a winsomeness which he had never 
seen upon her face before. 

Her delicate cheeks were slightly flushed, 
and her hair seemed more golden than in 
the daylight. She wore a dress of pale 
blue silk, which she brought in the big 
trunk from Cincinnati. He had thought 
it beautiful when she unpacked it, but now 
it seemed marvellous. The smile which 
Marne gave her beau and the fact that 
she had arrayed herself in this dress, which 
had never before, since her return home, 
been taken from its hook in her closet, 
told Harlow that she did not despise the 
attention of her cow-doctoring caller. 

Could it be true that, after all, Marne was 
only a girl like Min Cummings, Let’ Bas- 
com, Hat’ Duncan, and the other “ young 
ladies” whom he heard the young men joke 
each other about at the cheese factory ? 
The very question was a crushing one to 
196 


MAME’S BEAU 


him. He had thought of her as belonging 
to another kind of beings, and the only 
person with whom he had classed her was 
the new teacher. She and Marne had 
heretofore been set apart in his thought 
as belonging to another world. Now his 
sister from Cincinnati had shattered this 
ideal, and her fall filled him with misgivings 
concerning the new teacher. 

He felt that he must do something — 
something rash, desperate, and wicked. 
Quitting his post on the banking, he re- 
turned to the kitchen, where his father 
was dozing and his mother knitting beside 
the stove, and went to his chamber. There 
he took from the oval fig-box in the 
chimney cupboard the sixty cents which 
he had secretly saved toward a Christmas 
present for Marne. His courage almost 
failed as he came downstairs and met his 
mother’s inquiring glance. But he made 
a desperate effort and mumbled : 

“ I ’m goin’ t’ town.” 

“ Bring me a package of sal’ratus,” was 
her only reply. 

It almost angered him to think that 
she should take his first open defiance of 
parental authority so quietly. He was 
197 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


about to plunge into a career of wild and 
heartless dissipation, and on his way to the 
village he formulated the first steps of 
his downward career. How solemnly the 
church frowned down upon him as he hur- 
ried past it ! 

His pace was not slackened until he had 
entered the no-license tavern and stood 
trembling before the counter of the dingy 
little room where soft drinks were sold. His 
voice shook with excitement as he ordered : 

“ Pop, please.” 

It had been his determination to keep on 
ordering until he had drunk up his last cent ; 
but he found the first draught of the sizzling 
fluid more Ailing than he had anticipated. 
If only he had a companion in his dissipation 
he would not falter in his mad debauch ; but 
he was lonely and uncomfortably conscious 
of the stares and winks of the tavern 
loafers. He was also afraid that the hotel- 
keeper might refuse to serve him another 
drink. 

Once more in the street he regained his 
reckless impulse and attempted to find one 
of his schoolmates. Never before had the 
village seemed so deserted. Not a boy was 
to be found. One by one he saw the lights 
198 


MAME’S BEAU 


vanish from the windows until only the 
tavern showed signs of life. 

Then penitence, mingled with disappoint- 
ment that he had weakly failed to be des- 
perately wicked, seized him and he fled 
wretchedly down the shadowy homeward 
road — half fearing, half hoping that his 
folks would hear that he was getting “ wild,” 
and that they would repeat the sad report 
to Marne. 


199 


VISITING THE NEW TEACHER 


HERE was a gleam of joy in Harlow’s 



1 *eye as he entered the front door, left 
it open behind him, flung his school books 
into the nearest chair, and dashed wildly 
through the house shouting : 

“ Ma ! Ma-a-a ! Oh, ma ! ” 

He did not pause to listen for an answer 
until he had swept through the house from 
end to end and stood upon the back steps 
of the well-room. Then, after a moment of 
waiting, he renewed his calls with increased 
vigor. Suddenly a quiet voice almost be- 
hind him answered : 

“Well, what ’s the matter ? You holler ’s 
if you thought I ’d run off an’ you ’d never 
be able to git hold of my apern strings 
again.” 

“ Gee — but you scared me ! ” he retorted, 
laughing. Then in an anxious tone he 
added, “ Say, ma, you ’ll lemme, won’t you ? ” 
and with this he held out toward her a 
square, tinted envelope. 


VISITING NEW TEACHER 


“ Smells nice, don’t it ? ” she commented 
as she wiped her hands upon her apron and 
then hesitatingly opened the letter. 

“ Yes ; an’ it ’s a regular invite. Teacher 
told me to tell you that she ’d take good 
care of me an’ that she ’s got a little brother 
just about my size I can play with.” 

It ’s real kind an’ considerate of her to 
ask you to spend a whole week at her house. 
I must say there ain’t many teachers would 
do it. But I don’t know what your pa ’ll 
say about it. Then there ’s your clothes — 
they hain’t exactly fit for a visit. Anyhow, 
I ’ll talk it over with your pa. But you 
won’t make anything by teasin’, I can tell 
you that ! ” 

After piling the kitchen woodbox full to 
overflowing he carried a heaping armful of 
sticks to his sister’s chamber, cleaned the 
accumulation of ashes from her stove, care- 
fully “ brushed up ” the zinc and hearth and 
gave other startling evidences of a new- 
born thoughtfulness and zeal for the family 
comfort. Although his conscience did not 
convict him of direct craft in this unwonted 
display of energy, he was well aware that he 
was doing his utmost to inspire in his 
mother and Marne an active partisanship in 
201 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


his behalf. He was sure they would see 
that he was “ trying to do better.” 

When he awakened in the morning he 
did not pause to dress, but ran down the 
stairs two steps at a jump, opened the door 
into the kitchen, and in an undertone more 
penetrating than his natural voice called : 

“ Ma i ! You goin’ t’ lemme go ? ” 

“ ’T ain’t fully decided,” she answered, 
an’ ’t won’t be ’til I talk with the new 
teacher at the conf ’rence meetin’ to-night.” 

He knew that this was his mother’s way 
of saying that he would be permitted to 
make the journey if the new teacher could 
allay her fears regarding its propriety and 
dangers. After the prayer meeting was dis- 
missed that evening he waited with fever- 
ish anxiety while the new teacher and his 
mother sat upon the corner benches and 
held the consultation which was to decide 
his fate. 

“ Well, it’s dretful kind of you,” he heard 
his mother say. “ Most ladies don’t want 
boys around ; but he a-most worships you, 
an’ he ’s learned more since you ’ve been 
here than in all his life before.” 

Without waiting for an official confirma- 
tion of the result of the conference he 
202 


VISITING NEW TEACHER 


dashed out of the church and turned a 
hand-spring from the high horseblock at 
the end of the steps. 

During the remainder of the week the 
sitting-room was the scene of unremitting 
preparations, in every detail of which Har- 
low took a proud and prying interest. It 
made him think of the summer mother 
went East and of how it must have seemed 
to Mame when she was sent away to attend 
school in Cincinnati. The one preparatory 
move, however, which most impressed him 
with the stupendousness of the step into 
the world which he was about to take was 
the making of two long cotton garments. 

“What’s them?” he inquired, as his 
mother motioned him to stand before her 
while she measured the sleeves against his 
out-stretched arms. 

“ Night-dresses,” she replied, taking a clus- 
ter of pins from between her lips. “ An’ 
you ’re to wear one of ’em to bed every 
night you’re there.” 

“Why, ma; what’s the matter with my 
shirts ? Ain’t they all right ? ” 

“ Yes ; for daytime ; but you ’ll find town 
boys don’t sleep in their shirts. They do 
most everything differ’nt in town, an’ I 
203 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


hope to goodness you won’t disgrace the 
family by your manners ! You needn’t let 
on that you ain’t always slept in a night- 
dress. Don’t be tellin’ how we do to home, 
but just watch how they do, an’ pattern 
after ’s near ’s you can, like you ’d always 
been used to it.” 

He was dressed and out of the house that 
Saturday morning of his great departure 
before even his mother was up. The spirit 
of farewells was in the air, and as he leaned 
against the gnawed and uneven edge of the 
manger and drew the velvety nose of Old 
Molly against his cheek, a lump rose in his 
throat and stuck there until the tears started 
in his eyes. Yes, he was going away — 
away from the old home, to be gone a long 
time ! Then he climbed to the dove-box 
in the gable of the barn, made an easy 
captive of its cooing mistress, and nestled 
her soft wing in his neck. Next he scat- 
tered corn about the henhouse door and 
talked in caressing tones to his pet pullet 
as she cocked her head and blinked wisely 
at him, pecking the yellow grains from his 
extended palm. Somehow they seemed to 
understand that he was going away, and 
that others would feed them during his long 
204 


VISITING NEW TEACHER 


absence. But the supreme moment came 
when, after breakfast, his father carried out 
the black satchel and pushed it under the 
buggy seat. For the instant, as he stood 
on the threshold of the opened door, a 
sudden and almost overmastering impulse 
to stay swept over him ; but the fear of his 
shame at so cowardly a retreat came to 
his rescue. 

“Be a good boy,” his mother said as she 
bent down and kissed him. Then Marne 
gave a twist and a touch to the ends of his 
tie, whispered, “You ’ll be all right,” gave 
him a quick kiss, and then added: “Now 
jump into the buggy.” 

This parting surpassed in its demon- 
strativeness all family precedents. Never 
before had he been the object of such 
attentions, and perhaps a touch of his grati- 
tude gleamed in his face as he turned 
about in the buggy seat, waved his hand, 
and shouted : 

“ G’by ! G’by ! ” 

At the postoffice, where he found the 
new teacher already seated in the stage 
and waiting for him, he parted with his 
father, who placed a dollar in his hand, 
tapped him playfully upon the back, and said: 

205 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“ That’s for your fare on the cars. Now 
remember what your Ma’s told you.” 

As the stage slowly climbed the hill Har- 
low looked steadfastly back upon the deep- 
ening and broadening panorama of the 
valley. For the first time he saw it 
through eyes of a departing pilgrim. It had 
a new and strange beauty — a something 
which tightened about his throat and 
brought a mist to his eyes. There was the 
old church, the red mill, and, beyond the 
creek, the village schoolhouse with its square 
cupola. Then he traced the gray line of the 
road until he made out the row of balsams 
in front of the old home farmhouse. 

How often had he stood under the butter- 
nuts on the west hill, and wondered how it 
would seem to leave the place and all he 
had ever known, and go out into the world ! 
And now he was actually going away ; he 
would not see those familiar scenes for a 
whole week — perhaps for longer. Never 
before had he felt so blissfully sad. And 
there was the new teacher sitting close be- 
side him, her arm resting carelessly about 
his neck and her gloved hand tapping his 
shoulder in time to the tune which she was 
softly humming. 


206 


VISITING NEW TEACHER 


Just as the stage turned the hill and began 
the descent Harlow glanced up into the 
eyes of the new teacher, caught her smile, 
and knew that she understood how it all 
seemed to him ! 


207 


OUT INTO THE WORLD 


HE moments of that stage-ride down 



1 the hill to the railway station were 
the sweetest Harlow had ever tasted. Be- 
hind him, shut from sight by the ridge over 
which they had toiled, was the valley where 
his life had been spent. 

In the sweet vanity of his own shy heart 
he clothed his departure for a week’s visit at 
the new teacher’s with tragic pathos. The 
while he sat by Miss Merton’s side, appear- 
ing the personification of half-scared boyish 
stolidity, he was inwardly revelling in a 
vision of home-leaving, aspiration, struggle, 
and triumphal return to the humble scenes 
of his boyhood. And the touch of his 
teacher’s hand, as it rested against his own, 
seemed a benediction upon his vision — al- 
most a proof of its reality. 

He was sorry when the stage came to a 
halt beside the station and the driver helped 
the new teacher to alight, for it brought an 
unwelcome intrusion into the sweep of his 


208 


OUT INTO THE WORLD 


dreams. The corpulent station-agent arose 
with evident reluctance from his broad arm- 
chair on the platform, went inside his cage- 
like pen in the corner of the waiting-room, 
and handed Miss Merton her tickets. 

The clicking of the telegraph instruments 
had a weird and uncanny sound in the ears 
of the country boy. Why did the station 
agent pay no attention to their mysterious, 
insistent chatter ? Perhaps they were try- 
ing to tell some message of life-and-death 
importance ! The sprightly antics of the 
shining bits of brass inspired him with awe, 
almost with fear, and he discreetly moved 
outside and walked along the platform to 
the water tank while Miss Merton attended 
to the checking of her baggage. 

Just as she joined him, the realization 
that he had left home was crowded out of 
thought by the grasp of the fact that he was 
about to take his first ride upon the cars. 
This he was almost ashamed to admit, for 
he knew several town boys smaller than he 
who had been to Buffalo. Misgivings as 
to the safety of railway travel thronged his 
mind, and he inquired : 

“Do the cars go so fast you can’t read 
the signs on the fences ? ” 

209 


14 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“Well,” laughingly answered the new 
teacher, “they rumble along rather lively 
and don’t give you much time to spell out 
the words. But here comes the train. Now 
you will find out all about it for yourself.” 

Not until the train rolled into Dunkirk 
station did the boy speak to his companion. 
His face was pressed against the window 
pane, and his eyes were fascinated by the 
panorama of telegraph poles, fences, trees, 
and other stationary objects which flowed 
past him in a wild, dizzy stream. It seemed 
to him that he had never before known the 
meaning of motion. A hundred questions 
pressed for answer. Why did the ground 
close to the cars seem to move so much 
faster than that a little distance away ? 
What held the cars from overturning as 
they dashed around the curves ? The 
rhythmic pounding of the wheels over the 
rail joints half-charmed, half-terrified him, 
and the splendid excitement of new and 
confusing emotions made him disinclined 
to talk. 

“ It ’s only a little way more,” said Miss 
Merton, as they changed cars at Dunkirk 
and began the last stage of their journey. 

Before the brakeman called “Westfield” 
210 


OUT INTO THE WORLD 


it seemed to the small traveller that he had 
been days upon the cars, and that the insist- 
ent “ clack-a-clack ! clack-a-clack ! ” would 
always continue to resound in his ears. 
How strange was the touch of terra jirma 
to his feet as he stood awkwardly on the 
platform while Miss Merton’s big brother 
exchanged greetings with her, secured the 
baggage, and led the way toward their 
home. Their progress was interrupted by 
the salutations of the new teacher’s friends 
— and all the persons they met, from the 
children to the old men, appeared to belong 
to this class. 

But there was one greeting which was 
not for the returning teacher. It was for 
the country boy, and its whole stinging 
message of metropolitan insolence went 
straight to his heart ! As they passed two 
boys of about his own age he glanced shyly 
at them and noticed their white collars 
and jaunty clothing. Instantly their faces 
gleamed with a wicked pleasure. One 
clapped the palm of his hand over his lips 
and uttered a prolonged “ B-a-a-h,” while 
the other, with the point of his finger, drew 
down the lower lid of his eye until the white 
of the ball gleamed ominously. 

211 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


By these sinister gestures Harlow knew 
he was an alien in the land of the Philistines, 
that he bore in his own person the inefface- 
able marks of his country origin, and that 
the hand of every town boy would be 
against him. However, he cherished the 
hope that Miss Merton’s small brother 
would prove an exception to this rule. 

The approach of the latter was cautious, 
tentative. After they had stared at each 
other for a few moments, the town boy 
said : 

“ Le ’s see your marbles.” 

“ Hain’t got any,” was the shame-faced 
reply of the guest. A withering glance 
from the questioner closed the incident. 
Apparently it might also have ended all 
further advances from that source had not 
Miss Merton quickly remarked : 

“ But he has the finest gun of any boy in 
the township, so of course he doesn’t care 
much for marbles.” 

“ Shot a henhawk that measured five 
feet from tip to tip,” volunteered Harlow, 
moved to a desperate determination to do 
something in self-defence. This informa- 
tion clearly had the effect of tempering 
the contempt of Miss Merton’s brother. 

212 


OUT INTO THE WORLD 


But would it soften the hearts of the other 
Philistines ? 

This problem, and the overwhelming real- 
ization that he was far from home and would 
not see any one of his own folks for a whole 
week, pressed so mightily upon him that he 
forgot to take from the black satchel the 
new night-dress which his mother had pro- 
vided as a ceremonial robe marking his ini- 
tiation into village ways. 

If it had not been for the presence of his 
bedfellow he might have given tearful ex- 
pression to his sense of loneliness, but such 
a display of weakness would, he well knew, 
mean hopeless disgrace. 

However cowardly he was on the actual 
field of action, he was valiant in dreams, 
and he fell asleep planning the humiliating 
chastisement of the two boys who had met 
him with taunts of being fresh from green 
pastures and country sheepfolds. 


213 


AT A STRANGE ALTAR 


P to the time of his visit at the home 



of his teacher, in Westfield, Harlow 
had seen only the sternest forms of religious 
worship. The nearest approach to ritualism 
he had ever witnessed was the celebration 
of the Lord’s Supper. Once he had softly 
pushed open the green-baize doors of the 
conference-room wide enough for him to 
view the hushed assemblage of communi- 
cants and the small table, at the head of the 
centre aisle, bearing its sacred burden of 
bread and wine covered with napkins of 
snowy white. The simple ceremonial may 
have gained somewhat of impressiveness in 
his eyes from the fact that he viewed it by 
stealth and as one shut out from its mysteri- 
ous unction and fellowship. It made him 
think of the hymn : 


“ I stood outside the gate, 
A poor wayfaring child. 


And in my heart there beat 
A tempest loud and wild.” 


214 


AT A STRANGE ALTAR 

But the crisis of solemnity came when 
Elder Jennings held in each hand a ruddy 
goblet and pronounced the sacramental in- 
junction : “ This is the New Testament in 
my blood, shed for the remission of sins. 
Drink ye all of it ; and as oft as ye do it, 
do it in remembrance of Me.” The awe 
aroused by that communion scene lingered 
until supplanted by the richer impressions 
which crowded upon his entranced con- 
sciousness when he accompanied the new 
teacher to the first Episcopal service he 
ever attended. 

She purposely arrived early, and refrained 
from detailed explanations that she might 
catch the full force of the effect upon her 
unsophisticated guest. As he settled upon 
the soft cushions of the family 'pew, the 
novel splendors of the brilliant lights, the 
majesty of the arched roof with its heavy, 
bare beams, the soft glow of altar candles, 
and the rich reflections from burnished 
chancel-rail, gold-broidered altar-cloth, and 
stained windows stunned him into temporary 
silence. Softly the invisible organist began 
the swelling voluntary. By ones and twos 
the worshippers entered noiselessly — save 
for the rustle of silks — and knelt for a 
215 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


moment of silent prayer. When the new 
teacher was almost convinced that her 
charge had been awed into a state of speech- 
lessness his faculties of inquisitiveness sud- 
denly revived and he whispered : 

‘‘Do they all have to kneel down and 
pray like that?” 

“Those who belong here generally choose 
to do so,” she answered. 

“ They ’ve got lots of pulpit furniture, 
ham t they ? Do they have two preachers, 
one for each pulpit ? ” 

The new teacher merely shook her head 
and smiled. A moment later the volun- 
tary modulated into the far-away intonation 
of the prayer : 

“ Grant, O Lord, that the words which 
we are about to hear with our outward ears 
may be so grafted in our hearts that they 
may bring forth in our lives the fruits 
of good living, to the honor and glory of 
Thy holy name, through Jesus Christ, our 
Lord ! ” 

His eyes caught the devout inclination of 
each head, while his wondering ears were 
strained to discover the source of the mys- 
terious intonations, which suddenly swelled 
into the reverberating “ Ah-men ! ” Then 
216 


AT A STRANGE ALTAR 

came the louder tide of the processional, the 
martial and triumphant strains : 

“ Onward Christian soldiers ! 

Marching as to war, 

With the cross of Jesus 
Going on before.” 

But even this did not prepare him for the 
entry of surpliced priest and choir. The 
sudden appearance of an angelic throng 
could scarcely have stirred him to greater 
emotional stress. A deep, unrestrained sigh 
bore eloquent testimony to his unconscious- 
ness of self as the processional closed and 
the double lines of choir boys sank back into 
their stalls. 

As the service ascended by the stately 
steps of the opening Sentences, the Decla- 
ration, the penitential Confession, the gra- 
cious Absolution, the Lord’s Prayer, and 
the responses and the Magnificat, the boy 
sat entranced. The spectacle, common to 
those about him, was strangely glorious 
in his eyes. Its mysticism multiplied its 
charms and through ear and eye his soul re- 
ceived a flood of impressions which carried 
him to ecstatic heights of emotion, oblit- 
erating the sense of embarrassment which 
217 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


had crimsoned his cheeks as he saw in the 
white surplices a suggestion of his own new 
night-gown, with which he was not yet upon 
familiar terms. 

He made no attempt to follow the move- 
ments of the worshippers as they stood, sat, 
and knelt — moved, it seemed to him, by a 
common and spontaneous impulse. More 
impressive even than the Magnificat or the 
Nunc Dimittis was the reverent repetition 
of the Apostle’s Creed. 

Never before had religion appeared so 
solemn and so glorious a thing in the eyes 
of Harlow. But his soul was swept with 
the highest passion of wonder and adora- 
tion when from the white-robed choir burst 
forth the insistent, reiterative strains of the 
triumphal anthem. Thrills of exaltation 
shot him through with alternating heats 
and chills, as the sweetly piercing treble 
of the boy soprano proclaimed : 

“ The heavens are telling the glory of God, 
and the firmament showeth His handiwork ! ” 

Through every reiteration of this glad 
refrain, by answering ranks of tenors, bari- 
tones, and basses, his sensitive nature was 
thrilled to new heights. For once he felt 
no inclination to sleep during evening ser- 
218 


AT A STRANGE ALTAR 

vice, and the sight of a woman covering 
her yawning lips with a prayer-book failed 
to communicate to him the contagion usu- 
ally inevitable to such an example. The 
routine of the vesper ritual, so familiar to 
the other worshippers, was a revelation and 
an exaltation to the open-mouthed boy. 
That a spectacle of such grandeur was 
possible short of the heavenly city itself 
had not occurred to his imagination. The 
scene gave him a new standard by which 
to measure the prospective glories of the 
New Jerusalem. 

As the recessional retinue filed into the 
choir-room, the thought came to him that 
after all it might be only a dream. And 
this impression gained momentary accept- 
ance as he listened to the softly receding 
strains of the hymn : 

ee The Church’s one foundation 
Is Jesus Christ, her Lord ; 

She is His new creation 
By water and the W ord ; 

From Heaven He came and sought her 
To be His Holy Bride ; 

With His own blood He bought her, 

And for her life He died.” 

Faintly as from a far and great height, he 
caught the closing words : 

219 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“ O happy ones and holy ! 

Lord, give us grace that we. 

Like them, the meek and lowly, 

On high may dwell with Thee. 

Amen ! ” 

On their way back to the house Harlow 
was silently oblivious to all outward things. 
Again and again the scenes of the service 
rehearsed themselves in his thought and the 
small mystic heard the rhythmic intonations 
of the priest, the murmurous responses of 
the congregation, and the changing tides 
of choral melody. He wished his mother 
had been there to see and hear the wonders 
of the sacred ritual. But quick upon this 
thought came the sense of a great, deli- 
cious loneliness, tinged with the shadow of 
a reproving doubt. Could it be that he had 
strayed from the straight and narrow path ; 
that this show of earthly pomp and splen- 
dor was not in keeping with true religion ? 
Certainly he had never seen anything like 
it in the Baptist Church, and he knew that 
the Baptist faith was the only true one. 

Intuitively he felt that the ceremonial 
which had so thrilled him was at variance 
with the simple severity of the religious ex- 
ternals with which he was familiar. Could 
220 


AT A STRANGE ALTAR 


it be that he had done wrong in attending 
a service so different from that to which 
he knew his mother had been listening in 
the old church at home ? But the new 
teacher was surely a good Christian, and 
would not have led him where he ought 
not to have gone. And it was so beauti- 
ful, so grand, that he could not bring him- 
self to wish that he had stayed away ! 

Far into the night he pondered these 
problems, and epitomized them in the 
simple wish that there were not so many 
different churches, that all Christians were 
alike, and that he might every Sabbath see 
and hear what had so exalted him that 
evening. He was sure he would never 
again go to sleep in church if that wish 
were to come true. As he fell into dreams 
he still heard the solemn intonation : 

“ Glory be to the Father, 

And to the Son, 

And to the Holy Ghost ; 

As it was in the beginning. 

Is now, and ever shall be. 

World without end. 

Amen ! ” 


221 


AMONG THE PHILISTINES 


S MARTING under the cut of having 
been deserted by the new teacher’s 
brother, who had ungallantly sneaked away 
to a ball game, Harlow sat in solitary gloom 
on the back porch and meditated on the 
causes which had inspired this slight. He 
tried to make himself believe that the de- 
serter was moved with envy because he had 
been told that his sister’s guest owned the 
best gun of which any boy in the country 
could boast. But in his heart he knew that 
he was shunned and despised because he was 
“ countrified,” and because his ways were 
not those of the village Philistines. This 
was why “ the Merton boy,” as he mentally 
termed his cold quasi-host, was ashamed to 
take him among the town boys. 

If his hair had not been cut at a barber 
shop he would have felt that the marks of 
the domestic shears were responsible for the 
inhospitable treatment he had received at 
222 


AMONG THE PHILISTINES 


the hands of the village aristocrat, but now 
he faced the fact that the evidences of his 
alien belongings were in himself and not in 
the cut of his hair. He was, however, seized 
with a sudden distrust of his clothes, and he 
earnestly wished that his “ pants ” were cut 
off at his knees instead of reaching to his 
shoe-tops, like those worn by the men. 

In the midst of these sad reflections he 
saw a short man with a round, jolly face, 
come out of the back door of the next 
house and enter the woodshed at the rear 
of the lot. There was something in the 
rolling sway of the man’s body and the 
ready, rollicking importance of his manner 
which caused Harlow to wonder if he were 
not looking at a real sailor, a hero who had 
trod the deck of some “ good ship,” who had 
“ weathered many a gale ” and faced the 
terrors of the “ briny deep ” like Robinson 
Crusoe. 

How proud he would be if he might 
make the man’s acquaintance and listen to 
tales of shipwreck from the lips of the hero 
himself ! Such an experience, he well knew, 
would give him almost as much distinction 
in the eyes of the boys at home as had the 
possession of his gun. Somehow he had 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


come to gauge the importance of his West- 
field experiences quite as much by the an- 
ticipated admiration they would arouse 
when recounted to his companions on his 
return, as by the pleasure they afforded him 
at the passing moment. His heart gave a 
sudden jump, for as the man emerged from 
the woodshed, bearing a red flag and a 
hammer, he called : 

“ Say, Bub ! want to earn a nickel ? ” 

“Yes, sir,” was the prompt reply. But 
the words were scarcely out of his mouth 
before he repented his haste, realizing that 
he had not paused to learn into what paths 
so sanguinary a token as the red flannel flag 
might lead him. In Harlow’s thought this 
flaming guidon was innocent of any sug- 
gestions of bombs and bloodthirsty mobs, 
for anarchy and its emblem were unknown 
quantities to him. But he intuitively as- 
sociated the red flag with danger, and his 
alert sense of caution was instantly aroused. 

“ O ’t ain’t nothin’ t’ be scared at,” consol- 
ingly remarked the good-natured man. “ I 
hain’t no bomb-thrower ; I ’m jest the town 
orator — an’ I git about as fair pay for my 
gab as the parson an’ the lawyer. Give ’em 
as good return for their money, too ! Fact 
224 


4 


AMONG THE PHILISTINES 


is, Bub, I ’m the village auctioneer, an ol’ 
Mis’ Herrick’s household goods ’ve got 
to go under the hammer this afternoon. 
What I want you t’ do is t’ stand in front 
of the widow’s house an’ ring the bell. Now 
1 ’ll go inside and fetch it — ’long with some 
o’ my old jokes that’ve helped sell goods 
since Noey knocked down the ark to the 
highest bidder ! ” 

In a twinkling he disappeared into the 
house, but quickly returned, carrying the 
bell by the clapper. As he passed it to his 
small helper he remarked : 

“ That ’s rung for more ’n a hundred auc- 
tions in my day alone — that bell has ! but 
I ’ll be dumb’d if I ever hated t’ sell a lot of 
goods as bad as I hate t’ put up poor Mis’ 
Herrick’s things. They never ought t’ go 
t’ the block — never ! An’ they would n’t 
if she hadn’t got into the clutches of a 
measley ol’ skinflint. But an auctioneer ’s 
got t’ be like the Almighty in one perticler, 
anyhow. ’T ain’t for him t’ be a respecter 
of persons ! ” 

At the gate toward which the loquacious 
auctioneer led the way they met a tearful 
and haggard woman with a small black 
shawl drawn tightly about her head. 

15 225 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“ Now, Mis’ Herrick ! ” exclaimed the 
auctioneer, “ a-course it ’s a painful duty 
1 ’ve got t’ perform — never done a harder 
— but I was hopin’ you ’d take this occasion 
t’ run over an’ see Mary. She ’d welcome 
ye — an’ ’t would spare your feelin’s as well 
as my own if you ’d leave the handin’ up t’ 
be done by some one else.” 

As the auctioneer nailed the short flagstaff 
to the gate-post and Harlow began dolefully 
to swing the bell, the boy felt as if he were 
tolling for a funeral. It made him think of 
the day Mrs. Totman died. This impression 
deepened rather than decreased as the crowd 
gathered and the tongue of the auctioneer 
began its clattering jargon. Tables, chairs, 
dishes, and other poor, worn objects which 
had been parts of the shrivelled home were 
handed up to the auctioneer and over them 
he cracked his most approved jokes. The 
sour-visaged helper who waited on the ora- 
tor of the occasion finally brought from the 
bedroom a baby crib. As Harlow saw this 
and noticed that the knobs of the corner 
posts had been washed clean of paint by the 
small mouths which had sucked them, the 
pathos of the scene came within his grasp. 
It was a home, not a woman, that had died, 
226 


AMONG THE PHILISTINES 


and this was its funeral. The auctioneer 
pulled hard at the little wisp of gray whis- 
kers which dangled from his chin. Some- 
thing stuck in his throat. 

“ Look here, boys,” he said, after he had 
taken a drink of foaming cider from the 
brown earthenware pitcher, “ you know the 
whole rigamarole ! I ’ve sold these things 
before, but this time I hain’t no heart to 
joke the young fellers and the old baches on 
their prospects. Old Deacon Todd made 
that cradle in his cabinet shop for Jane the 
second year after she was married. Every 
spindle was turned by his own hands on his 
own lathe. He put honest work an’ big 
hopes into that job. The children that 
sucked the paint off the posts and siderails 
of that crib are keepin’ the old man com- 
pany, an’ Jane Herrick’s at my house this 
minnit, wishin’ she was with ’em under the 
sod of the side hill. If they ’s a man mean 
enough to bid on this crib — ’nless he in- 
tends to turn it back t’ Jane — I hope th’ 
words ’ll stick in his throat so ’s I can’t 
hear ’em ! ” 

In the hush which followed, Harlow’s 
sniffles were not the only audible evidences 
that the homely words of the auctioneer 

m 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


had touched the sympathy of his hearers. 
As the boy tried to move unobserved 
from the foot of the auction block to 
the outskirts of the crowd he heard a thin 
man with red whiskers and freckled hands 
say: 

“I hain’t missed an auction in twenty 
years. Been to ’em all — an’ my wife says 
I ’ve bought the family poor with old truck. 
But I never saw Sam Pervis make a better 
hit. They ’ll tell of that ’round auction 
blocks in this county for years to come, 
I ’ll bet.” 

The yip of a dog, caught under the heavy 
heel of a bystander, broke the solemn spell. 
The auctioneer cleared his throat and was 
soon repeating : — 

“ Forty, I ’m bid ! Who ’ll make it fifty ? 
Forty! Forty! Forty! Forty! Forty! 
Forty! And — third an’ last call! Going 
— going — gone — And ! — sold for forty 
cents to Neighbor Shedd.” 

But the boy did not even wait to get his 
five-cent fee as bell-ringer or to ask the auc- 
tioneer if he had been a truly sailor. The 
awful pathos of life in a city like Westfield 
oppressed him. He was very glad that 
those were not his mother’s things that 
228 


AMONG THE PHILISTINES 


were being sold — and he was suddenly and 
inexpressibly sorry that he was not at home 
where he could see her and tell her all 
about it. Would his visit never come to 
an end ? 


229 


SONGS AND HOMESICKNESS. 


B EFORE the second week of his West- 
field visit was half over the quaking 
desolations of homesickness seized upon 
Harlow. Not even the civil approaches of 
the new teacher’s small brother toward a 
better acquaintance aroused him from his 
perverse gloom. His breast seemed to con- 
tain a smothered volcano of emotion which 
threatened, at any moment, to break out 
in wails and sobs. He struggled valiantly 
to keep himself from the open disgrace of 
tears ; but the supreme test came when his 
hostess seated herself at the parlor melo- 
deon, before the lamps were lighted, and 
sang to her own soft accompaniment : 

“ In the prison cell I sit. 

Thinking, mother dear, of you, 

And our bright and happy home so far away ; 

And the tears they fill my eyes 
Spite of all that I can do, 

’Tho I try to cheer my comrades and be gay.’* 

230 


* 























. 





“He threw himself astride a chair and sobbed out his home- 
sickness.” 



SONGS AND HOMESICKNESS 


Before she struck the first note of the 
stirring chorus a choking wail mingled with 
the notes of the melodeon and he dashed 
from the parlor, stumbled blindly through 
the sitting-room and took refuge in the 
deserted kitchen. There he threw himself 
astride a chair, leaned his forehead against 
its back, and sobbed out his homesickness in 
grateful abandon. When his grief was well 
spent he half hoped the new teacher would 
come into the room and talk to him — per- 
haps put her arm about him as she had done 
that happy morning in the stage-coach so 
long ago. But she came not, and he could 
still hear her singing, although the door was 
tightly shut. The thought that she could 
continue to sing while she knew he was out 
in the kitchen crying opened afresh his 
springs of self-pity. Gradually, however, 
his grief subsided into a spasmodic and in- 
voluntary quaking of the diaphragm, and his 
thoughts drifted into the realm of pathetic 
speculation. 

His face was buried in the crook of his 
arm and he sat very still save for the sighs 
and quavers that shook his spare frame at 
intervals. He wondered how it would 
really seem to be back again in his “ bright 
231 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


and happy home so far away.” Then he 
attempted to call before his tight-shut eyes 
the tangible vision of his mother’s face. 
The experiment startled him. He could 
feel just how she looked, but the image 
which floated before his mental vision lacked 
distinctness and outline. He could really 
see the yellowish discoloration that over- 
spread her cheek, but grasp a sharp picture 
of her entire face, just as it appeared in the 
photograph which had been taken at Fre- 
donia, he could not. There was something 
almost terrifying in the thought that he had 
been away so long that he had actually for- 
gotten liis mother’s face ! 

By the same method he sought to sum- 
mon in passing review the forms and faces 
of his father, Marne, Steve, and the little 
girl with the long braids. That he should be 
able to recall the face of the hired man with 
greater distinctness than that of his own 
mother perplexed and annoyed him. But 
he had no regret that he could see the image 
of his playmate with the brown braids as 
distinctly as if he were sitting in the next 
seat behind her in church. The color came 
to his cheeks as he wondered if she had 
missed him, and if his absence seemed as 
232 


SONGS AND HOMESICKNESS 


long to her as it did to him. There was 
no question on this score as far as his 
mother’s feelings were concerned. Of that 
he was sure. And he was equally and com- 
fortably certain that he had been missed by 
his sister and Steve. 

With these reflections came the inspira- 
tion to take a present to each of them. 
This resolve revived his drooping spirits and 
gave him courage to arouse himself and slip 
through the sitting-room to his chamber. 
There he drew from the black satchel the 
oval fig-box in which reposed his worldly 
wealth. He laid it out in the band of 
moonlight that crossed the window-sill and 
counted it with painful exactness : 63 cents! 

His intention to invest the whole sum in 
the most glorious assortment of marbles ever 
displayed on the hard-packed soil of the 
old schoolhouse yard was not put aside 
without a pang. The cherished vision of a 
richly colored “ cornelian,” a mammoth 
“ glassie,” with a white lamb in its centre, 
surrounded with a maze of bright-hued 
spiral threads, and a dazzling array of 
lesser “ bull’s-eyes,” “ brannies,” “ agates,” 
and “commies,” did not down without a 
struggle. 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


Slowly he arranged the dimes and coppers 
into tiny piles, trying to gauge each allot- 
ment according to the relative amount of 
regard which he wished the proposed gifts 
to indicate. 

But he struggled laboriously and in vain 
to make a satisfactory apportionment, and 
at last threw himself upon the bed with the 
resolve that he would put his entire treas- 
ure into a handsome present for his mother. 
But what should it be ? A reticule ? A 
work-box ? A net for her hair ? Or a tin- 
type of himself? When he waked in the 
morning he realized that he must have 
fallen asleep in his clothes, and that some 
one had undressed him and put him to bed. 
The thought that the new teacher un- 
doubtedly performed this maternal office 
softened the touch of resentment that he 
had felt because she had continued to sing 
while she knew he was crying. 

Saturday was “ butter day ” at Westfield, 
and it found him stationed at the head of 
the basement stairs leading into the butter 
cellar to which he knew his father would go 
on arriving in town. In his hand he held 
the precious reticule with which he was to 
surprise his mother. The thumb of his 
234 


SONGS AND HOMESICKNESS 


other hand was caught in the pocket of 
his trousers and eagerness and expectancy 
beamed in his dilated eyes. 

Hour after hour he stood at his lookout 
post, shifting the burden of his weight, in 
restless alternation, from one foot to the 
other. For a time he resolutely refused to 
admit the fear that something might have 
happened to prevent his father coming. 
With every moment of delay this dread 
suggestion gathered added strength. What 
should he do if his father failed to come at 
all ? He knew that he could never endure 
the blow of such a disappointment ; that 
to remain another day was an utter im- 
possibility. 

Just as despair began to dash his stoutest 
hopes, he caught sight of the swaying, bob- 
bing head of a horse coming around the 
nearest street corner. It was the head of 
Old Molly and he felt like shouting at the 
sight of it. But he did n’t ; he only stood 
in voiceless embarrassment,- sheepishly grin- 
ning his unspeakable delight as his father 
drove up and called out gayly : 

“ Well, young man ! Got your visit out 
and ready to go back ? ” 

There was little conversation on the 
235 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


homeward way. Harlow was too happy to 
talk. Now that he was safely beside his 
father on the seat of the democrat wagon 
and they were actually moving in the direc- 
tion of home, he experienced an entire 
change of heart with regard to his visit. 
The pains of homesickness faded into the 
realization that he had visited the new 
teacher , and that the pleasures of this rare 
distinction would grow with each rehearsal 
of his experiences. Her good-by kiss and 
the merry laugh with which she accom- 
panied the gay flutter of her handkerchief 
as they drove away obliterated all save the 
delights of the immortal fortnight of his 
first absence from home. 

“ I s’pose things look about as they used 
to, Pa ? ” he timidly inquired, as they paused 
at the log watering-trough in the big woods. 
The smile which played about his father’s 
lips as this question was answered in the 
affirmative checked him from a further be- 
trayal of the speculations which filled his 
mind as to the changes which possibly had 
taken place in his absence. But his first 
glimpse of the little town, from the crest 
of Doty’s Hill, thrilled him with the glad 
knowledge that the village was still there, 
236 


SONGS AND HOMESICKNESS 


untouched by time or change. And there, 
too, was the old farm-house. He could 
just make it out by the tall balsams in 
front ! 

Half an hour later he leaped from the 
democrat wagon, pushed back the clatter- 
ing bars, and carried the black satchel into 
the house while his father drove on to the 
horse barn. As he entered the sitting-room 
his mother looked up from the pan of 
potatoes which she was paring. But before 
she was able to speak Harlow stammered : 

“Well; I — I see that woodbox needs 
fillin’ ! ” 


237 


DRIVEN WITHOUT THE CAMP 


“TT7TLL it have a steeple, Pa, an’ a 

V v bell ? ” inquired Harlow. 

“Yes, I s’pose so,” dryly answered his 
father. 

“ I wisht we could help,” timidly re- 
sponded the boy, from his seat on the door- 
step, “ but,” he added, reflectively, “I s’pose 
we can’t because we ’re poor.” 

“Now look here,” good-humoredly ex- 
claimed the man, “ I did n’t refuse to sub- 
scribe to rebuildin’ the church because we ’re 
poorer than the rest of ’em. It ’s just as I 
told th’ old Deacon : I hain’t got the money, 
an’ I don’t know where it ’s cornin’ from ; 
an’ it ain’t honest to pledge what you can’t 
reasonably expect to get.” 

Harlow’s eyes were following the figure 
of the gaunt old Deacon bobbing down the 
road with a jerky, petulant tread. 

“ Acts kind of stirred up, don’t he ? ” 
commented the father. “ That ’s th’ Deacon 
all over. He told me t’ trust th’ Lord an’ 


WITHOUT THE CAMP 


He would provide. Guess it didn’t occur 
t’ him that if it ’s just a matter of trustin’ 
th’ members of th’ church ought t’ be able t’ 
do that without callin’ on outsiders. But 
th’ long an’ short of it is that I can’t put 
down on th’ church paper th’ money that 
ought t’ go t’ payin’ my honest debts. An’ 
I won’t either ! ” 

“ Ain’t all th’ folks that ’s got children in 
th’ Sunday-school goin’ to give something?” 
persisted Harlow. 

“ Likely.” 

There was an interval of silence empha- 
sized by the purring of the cat and the 
chirping of a robin. 

“ Well,” continued the father, “if you’re 
so anxious t’ have a hand in fixin’ over th’ 
church, I ’ll tell you what I ’ll do. You c’n 
subscribe sixty days’ work with a double 
team an’ I ’ll let you have your time an’ the 
use of Mack and Tige t’ haul the buildin’ 
material from th’ stun quarry and th’ saw- 
mill.” 

With a bound the boy leaped from the 
doorsill and sped down the road after the 
retreating figure of the Deacon. When he 
returned his eyes glowed with pride and 
excitement. 


239 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“ He seemed kind of glad t’ get th’ haulin’ 
subscribed,” shyly commented the boy, re- 
suming his seat. His eyes were fixed 
dreamily on the dumpy little church in the 
village, at the foot of the hill ; but in its 
place he saw a splendid white steeple, a 
steep roof, tall windows, and green blinds ; 
and in his ears were ringing peals from a 
clanging bell, like those he had heard at 
Westfield. 

“ He ’s got an awful lot of pride — that 
boy ! ” commented his mother, in an under- 
tone, as she handed the milking-pail to the 
father. 

Two days later, seated on a scrap of soiled 
and fuzzy sheepskin, his bare feet dangling 
from the forward bolster of the long, boxless 
wagon, Harlow called out : 

“ G’ up there, Tige ! ” and drove proudly 
out of the churchyard with the air of a 
man conscious of the importance of his 
mission and of his ability to perform it. 
The order for the lumber had been pinned 
to his waist by the chairman of the building 
committee, but as soon as Harlow had 
passed out of sight from this individual he 
took out the pin and slipped the scrap of 
store paper under the shoestring that banded 
240 


WITHOUT THE CAMP 

his palmleaf hat — as he had seen Annis, the 
teamster who hauled from Fredonia, do with 
his orders. 

A band of morning mist still hung over 
Bear Creek and threaded the valley like a 
gray ribbon ; cows filed in solemn proces- 
sion out of stable doors after their early 
milking ; and farm dogs charged savagely at 
the passing wagon, and retreated at the 
swish of his whip as he passed ; the reins 
danced merrily upon the backs of Mack 
and Tige, and a cloud of dust trailed in 
the wake of the happiest, proudest driver 
who ever cracked a whip. 

At the Town Line Corners he passed Joe 
Shinn, the cattle-buyer, who eyed him 
sharply, smiling at the odd figure of so 
small a boy behind so large a team. He 
looked curiously lonely perched on the jolt- 
ing bolster of the long-reached wagon. 

“ Head up, like a steer in the corn ! ” 
muttered the cattle-buyer, as he lashed the 
ragweed at the side of the wheelrut. 

But Harlow was too happy to notice the 
smile of the passer, or even to whistle. He 
saw, instead, the line which Deacon Keth 
had written on the subscription paper : 
“60 days work — man and Double Team ,” 
16 241 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


saw the slender white steeple, and heard 
the clanging of the deep-voiced bell! As 
he slapped the reins upon the flanks of 
Mack and Tige and clucked them into 
a sharper trot, the Golden Text of last 
Sunday’s lesson came suddenly into his 
mind : 

“And there was a feast of the Jews, and 
Jesus went up to Jerusalem.” 

Above the muffled pounding of the horses’ 
hoofs, above the clatter of loosened felloe 
and rattling kingbolt, this Bible verse re- 
peated itself in his ears. Yes; when the 
church was all made over, and the tall 
steeple reached, white and slender, towards 
the sky, and the big bell was hung, hundreds 
of people would come from near and far, the 
greatest gathering the town had ever seen, 
bigger even than when the circus had 
showed on the square or when the liberty- 
pole was raised. And then, too, the Dedi- 
cation would be solemn and grand, with the 
presence of great men and with beautiful 
music from the new organ and strange 
singers. Sardis Shepard, the superinten- 
dent, had said to the Sunday-school after 
the lesson last Sabbath, and Giles Pettis, 
the leader of the choir, had told Mrs. Mar- 
242 


WITHOUT THE CAMP 


tin, that the town would “never witness 
such an occasion again.” 

On the bolster, close beside the sheepskin, 
he kept tally — one scratch with the point 
of a horseshoe nail for each day’s work. He 
always made the tally just as he drove in at 
the bars on the home trip. 

“ Them sixty days’ work is all in, Pa,” 
said Harlow, halting the team at the back 
door, on his return from the last trip to the 
shingle mill. “ Skinny Munger asked me 
to let him drive far ’s th’ schoolhouse, this 
mornin’. But he ain’t safe with the horses ! 
I wouldn’t trust him.” 

Then his eyes sought the steeple in the 
valley and he added, “ I guess all of us that ’s 
worked on the church is kind of glad t’ see 
that up.” 

Harlow’s sense of responsibility for the 
advance work on the church would not be 
dismissed with the end of his labor as a 
teamster. Each step in the completion of 
the structure held its own peculiar fascina- 
tion for him, and he hung about the workmen 
with the faithfulness of a shadow, brought 
them water, ran their errands, discussed with 
them the various “ finishing touches ” which 
were to make for the beauty of the edifice. 

243 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


He was almost sorry when all was done, 
and the splendor of new paint, of paper 
which showed great fluted pillars, and inner 
doors of green baize bright with brass tacks 
had transformed the humble house of wor- 
ship into a temple of strange and unfamiliar 
grandeur, ready for the pomp and mystery 
of the Dedication ceremonial. 

A week before this supreme event Sardis 
Shepard hailed Harlow from the post-office 
steps and said : 

“ You’ve been selected as one of the 
ushers to seat the people at the services, 
Harlow.” 

It was something to drive a double team 
and do a man’s work — but to be chosen to 
act as usher at the Dedication ! This honor 
had never winged his most ambitious 
dreams. As he walked homeward to carry 
these marvellous tidings, his feet were tread- 
ing the soft new carpet of the church aisle 
instead of the narrow footpath, and he was 
showing strange men and women, dressed 
in fine clothes, to their seats in the pews. 
Clothes ! The word cast a cloud of doubt 
over his bright expectations. His best suit 
was scarcely fit for Sunday-school, to say 
nothing of the Dedication, in which he 
244 


WITHOUT THE CAMP 


would be before the eyes of a vast con- 
gregation. 

Pride and fear both found their way into 
his voice as he entered the sitting-room and 
told of the honor that had been offered him, 
ending his narrative with the depressing 
qualification : 

“ But my clothes ain’t fit, an’ I guess I ’ll 
have to give it up, won’t I, Ma ? ” 

Aunt Pomilla, who had come to help out 
on the new rag carpet, snapped her thread 
with a decisive jerk. 

“No. I have n’t churned butter all sum- 
mer for nothing. You shall have a good 
suit, one that will be appropriate for the 
occasion ! ” 

Acts rather than words were characteristic 
of this aunt, who had been carefully edu- 
cated in a select female seminary and whose 
“ butter money ” was reckoned among the 
substantial cash assets of the town. Drop- 
ping her ball of rags she disappeared into 
the spare bedroom, returning with the red 
morocco pocket-book which had always 
stood in Harlow’s eyes as the symbol of 
unlimited worldly wealth. 

“ There ! ” she exclaimed, stiffly thrusting 
a ten-dollar note and two silver dollars into 
245 


THE COUNTRY BOY 

the boy’s hands. “ That ’ll buy the cloth 
and making for as good a suit as any boy in 
this town will wear to the Dedication. I 
always intended to do something substantial 
for you, Harlow. Now if you get that suit 
finished in time your Pa ’ll have to drive to 
Fredonia for the cloth to-morrow.” 

Speechless under the rare praise and the 
overwhelming generosity of Aunt Pomilla, 
Harlow slipped abashed from the room and 
sought his father in the orchard. A gleam 
of pride flashed in the eye of the father as 
he listened to the boy’s account of the honor 
and the gift that had come to Harlow. Al- 
though he said little in reply, the boy under- 
stood and was inexpressibly happy. 

October never coined a more golden day 
than that which gladdened the pilgrims who 
journeyed to the Dedication from every vil- 
lage and settlement of the county and even 
from “ the city.” 

Very early in the morning, before the first 
team had hitched in the horse sheds, Har- 
low, clad in the modest splendor of his but- 
ternut browns, stood in the churchyard, his 
hands thrust deep in his pockets, his head 
thrown far back and his eyes fixed on the 
gilded glittering arrow which formed the 
246 


WITHOUT THE CAMP 


weather vane. He gazed at the golden tip 
of the steeple until his neck ached with the 
tension. Then his eyes were slowly lowered 
until they took in every detail of the sightly 
edifice. 

Yes ; it was done, this “ Temple of the 
Lord ! ” There it stood in the morning sun- 
light, tall and white and stately. Soon its 
slender steeple would shake and tremble 
with the vibrations of the swaying bell, 
sounding its first summons to the Dedica- 
tion services. And he had helped build 
that church ! — had done sixty days work 
with Mack and Tige, hauling lumber from 
the Busti sawmill, stone from Ellsworth’s 
gully, sand from Owlsborough, and shingles 
from Ford’s Run. It would stand there, 
grand and beautiful, too, for years and years, 
until he was a grown-up man — and per- 
haps he would go away and then come back 
to it and be asked by the Superintendent 
to “address” the Sunday-school, as Philo 
Wilkins had done when he came from New 
York last summer. 

But the noise of the stage coming down 
the hill put an end to Harlow’s reflections, 
and he hastened to the steps of the hotel 
to watch the arrival of the strangers from 
247 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


the Cross-cut Station. Shucks and Skinny 
and the other boys elbowed him as he 
watched the emptying of the stage. 

“ There ’s th’ big preacher from th’ city — 
th’ one in th’ tall shiny hat ! ” commented 
Shucks. 

“ Aw ! don’t point yer finger. ’T ain’t 
p’lite. Teacher said so,” interrupted the 
drug-store boy, who disdained to go bare- 
foot and had been given a silver watch on 
the pledge that he would never learn to 
smoke. 

“ Bet that’s th’ lady that ’s goin’ t’ sing,” 
remarked Skinny. 

“ An’ that ’s th’ Fredony preacher. He ’s 
goin’ t’ talk first,” volunteered Shucks. 

“ Guess I better be goin’ down t’ th’ 
church an’ gettin’ ready t’ usher,” remarked 
Harlow, with a proud consciousness of the 
responsibilities which weighed upon his 
shoulders and of the envious glances which 
his companions turned upon him. 

Before he reached the church the bridge 
rumbled with the repeated passing of 
wheels ; every road winding up the sides of 
the clustering hills was dotted with teams, 
and the town suddenly swarmed with un- 
wonted life. The Dedication had come at 
248 


WITHOUT THE CAMP 


last, and in a few moments he would be 
walking up the aisle, seating the people. 
As he reached the row of tall, dark-hued 
balsams in front of the church, the words of 
the Golden Text again came to his mind : 

“ And there was a feast of the Jews, and 
Jesus went up to Jerusalem.” 

His Sunday-school teacher met him in 
the lower vestibule, from each end of which 
the shining, varnished rails of the walnut 
staircase curved gracefully upward to the 
main audience-room. 

“ You may take the right aisle, and Willie 
the left. Give the strangers and the officers 
of the church the front pews and seat our 
own people in the body and the rear of the 
house.” These were the brief instructions 
given to the boy, who leaned against the 
big, imposing post at the bottom of the 
right stairway. 

Almost faint with happiness Harlow went 
slowly up the stairs and waited for the first 
comers to arrive. The deacons of the 
church, preoccupied and solemn with im- 
portance, brushed hurriedly past him and 
entered the audience room. A moment 
later Deacon Keth returned, touched the 
sleeve of Harlow’s coat and said : 

249 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“ Come into the conference room. I have 
something to say to you.” 

Wondering what new instructions were 
to be given him and resolving not to forget 
a word that was told him, Harlow followed 
his venerable guide to the basement, into 
the room which was to be used for prayer- 
meetings and the Sunday-school. 

The Deacon’s spare hand sought the 
white stubble underneath the square chin 
and he cleared his throat with a rasping 
“ ah-h-e-em ! ” as if he found it difficult to 
find suitable words in which to set forth his 
mission. 

“ There ’s been a mistake — a little hasty 
action on the part of your teacher. It has 
been decided,” he continued, slowly polishing 
the crown of his silk hat, “ that it would be 
inappropriate to have any but the children of 
professors officiate at these solemn services, 
and your Pa ’s an unbeliever. That ’s the 
decision of the deacons of this church, so we 
won’t need your help. Jimmie Totman will 
take the right aisle.” 

Then the speaker turned abruptly and left 
the room with the air of a man who has dis- 
charged a disagreeable duty and is glad to 
be rid of it. 


250 


WITHOUT THE CAMP 


Five minutes later a shaking little figure 
stole through the wood room and out the 
back door of the basement. The butter- 
nut brown suit hung awkwardly upon his 
stooped shoulders ; the pride of life had 
suddenly left him, and he was miserably 
shrunken, wasted, swollen of eye, and ashen 
of face. Scarcely would his nearest com- 
panion have recognized, in his haunted face 
and stricken figure, a suggestion of the 
Harlow who had “ hauled ” for the church, 
and carried the approaching honors of the 
Dedication upon his erect shoulders with 
ingenuous pride. 

Glancing back, as if fearful some dread 
pursuer were close upon his track, he hesi- 
tated for a moment, then fled precipitately 
to the stall in which Mack and Tige were 
gnawing the braces of the horse-shed. The 
big bay instantly lowered his velvety nose 
and pushed it against the tear- wet face of the 
boy. But the caress was not returned, for 
the sound of an approaching wagon was 
heard, and the brown figure of Harlow 
slipped quickly through the gap in the 
shed, where the pawing of restless horses 
had broken out a board. 

Despair and disgrace were delineated in 
251 


THE COUNTRY BOY 

every line of the small fugitive who stum- 
bled wearily along the mill-race, starting 
guiltily at the sound of every voice that 
came from the road. At the pond he 
veered eastward, climbed the hill, crossed 
the sheep pasture, grizzled with poverty 
grass and dotted with thistles and rocks, and 
disappeared into Uncle Ben Miller’s orchard. 
His steps crushed striped and golden pip- 
pins, but these tempted him not, for his 
eyes saw only the bushy brows and the 
square chin of Deacon Keth. 

Then he plunged into his father’s sugar 
bush. There he paused for breath, leaning 
blindly against the trunk of a friendly maple. 
But he could not rest there, for the sugar 
shanty was still a little beyond. He would 
crawl in there — and never come out again. 
They would find him there, sometime — 
after many days, perhaps — and then they 
would know how cruel it had all been ! 

Stumbling through the door of the rough 
shanty he threw himself down upon a bed 
of leaves. And he would die there ! He 
knew this, for already he felt weaker than 
when he had been taken down with the 
fever. 

But after an hour of wild sobbing he was 
252 


WITHOUT THE CAMP 


still alive. Then his head became strangely 
light and buzzed like the “bumble” bees 
whose nests he broke up in the South 
Meadow. Into his confused thoughts crept 
the awful conviction that, in some myste- 
rious way, hopelessly beyond his under- 
standing, his father must be among the Lost 
— for the Deacon had said he was not a pro- 
fessor. And he was lost, too. They were 
all lost except those who belonged to the 
church. Terrors of the Judgment Day 
flitted in awful pantomime through his be- 
wildered mind. Almost he wished that the 
world had already come to an end that 
night when the lightnings shook the whole 
valley and a bolt shattered the old elm, 
for then his father and mother had been 
with him, close beside him in their own bed. 
Now he must die alone ! 

Suddenly the resonant peals of the bell in 
the white steeple reached his refuge and 
changed the spirit of his disordered dreams. 
The church ! He saw the crowded seats, 
the solemn, expectant audience ; saw Willie 
and Jimmie going up and down the aisles, 
spying out seats for the late comers ; heard 
the swelling chords of the organ, the song 
of the beautiful lady who had come over in 
253 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


the stage, the deep voice of the tall preacher 
making the opening prayer ! And he was 
cast out, shamed and disgraced ; he, who had 
hauled for the church and had been chosen 
as an usher ! But they would never see his 
face again — not in life ! 

All the questions, the taunts and stares of 
Skinny and Shucks and the rest of the boys 
would not reach him. And he would never 
have to look into the tender, inquiring eyes 
of the new teacher again. 

Before the slant beams of the sun threw 
long shadows from the maples and told of 
the approaching dusk, a new sensation came 
to the prostrate boy — an inward gnawing. 
He was not hungry ; he knew that, for he 
was going to die ! — but a vision of fried- 
cakes and cookies in the brown jars in the 
pantry came persistently before his eyes, and 
with increasing distinctness. 

Then, too, the mysterious process of death, 
the vague, dark door of escape from his ter- 
rible wretchedness and despair, seemed not 
so near as when he had thrown himself 
down upon the leaves in the shanty. 

Perhaps, after all, it would be better to 
run away. That would provide an escape 
from the shame of it all and — perhaps — 
254 


WITHOUT THE CAMP 


it might sometime, in some way, come out 
all right. Maybe his father would become 
converted and join the church, and the Dea- 
con would grow sorry for what he had done. 
Then he could come back home again. Yes ; 
he would run away ! 

As the shadows deepened he knew his 
father and mother would be out in the 
barn, milking. He could steal into the 
house, get his things and some fried-cakes, 
and then leave the old place forever ! 

Cautiously he moved to the execution of 
his plan. The house was very still as he 
crept silently in at the front door and stole 
to his chamber. From his shell-box he 
took the store of pennies he had saved to 
buy Christmas presents with. Into a heap 
in the centre of the big handkerchief he 
tossed the New Testament his Sunday- 
school teacher had given him, his reward- 
of-merit cards, his chunk of gold quartz 
Steve had brought from Colorado, his big 
crystal marble with a white lamb inside, the 
little buckskin purse from the new teacher, 
and a keyless padlock he had found, almost 
as long ago as he could remember, in the 
road in front of the shoe shop. 

Tying the corners of the handkerchief to- 
255 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


gether he slipped the bundle upon his arm, 
and went stealthily down the stairway to 
the pantry. The sight of his mothers sun- 
bonnet hanging upon its nail beside the 
kitchen door, caused his breast to shake 
with sobs. He might never see her again 
— never ! And how she would cry when 
she found he had run away ! 

Suddenly he jumped, dropping the fried- 
cakes and cookies upon the pantry floor. 
His mother’s hand was upon his shoulder 
and she was saying: 

“Why, Harlow!” 

Then, reading the terror of his upturned 
face, she led him into the kitchen, where 
he buried his face in her apron and sobbed 
out his tale of shame. In the course of its 
recital the father entered and stood a silent 
listener. The brown, work-worn hands of 
the mother stroked the boy’s hair until his 
tempest of sobs subsided and he found breath 
to confess : 

“It — it — makes me ’fraid Pa may be 
an in-fi-del, like old Aaron the shoemaker, 
an’ that he is — lost ! ” 

“ Your father hain’t ever made any regu- 
lar profession of religion,” quickly returned 
Harlow’s mother, “ but he ain’t so lost 
256 


WITHOUT THE CAMP 


but what he gen’ly remembers to live the 
Golden Rule. I ham t forgot yet how he 
took care of Deacon Keth’s children through 
the scarlet fever, — never slept out of his 
clothes for two weeks, — an’ I sh’d think th’ 
Deacon ’d remember that, too ! ” 

This was the most startling and aggres- 
sive speech Harlow had ever heard from 
his mother’s mild lips. Instinctively he 
realized the depth of righteous indignation 
required to move her to such an expression. 

That night the father left the comforting 
of Harlow to the mother. His only remark 
was : “ If it ’s clear to-morrow I ’m goin’ to 
go after some squirrels.” 

Harlow made no reply, asked no ques- 
tions, but he knew that the squirrel hunt 
was planned for his pleasure, that he would 
tramp at his father’s side all day long, and 
that he would be given the best shots with 
the long rifle. 

Before they returned from the hunt, stand- 
ing on the Big Rock overlooking the little 
valley, the father spoke as if to himself : 

“ A good many of the cruellest things that 
have been done in this world have been 
done in the name of religion — but without 
its spirit. ‘ If a man love not his brother 
1 7 257 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


whom he hath seen, how can he love God 
whom he hath not seen ? ’ ” 

In some way he could not understand, 
it seemed to Harlow he had never been so 
near this tall, strong, quiet man before, and 
they went down the hillside hand in hand. 
Now, of a certainty, the boy knew that his 
father was not numbered among the Lost, 
and all the world seemed strangely safe and 
peaceful. 

Passing through the village they came 
unexpectedly upon Aunt Pomilla, bearing 
in her hand the footstool which had rested 
in her pew since the old church was opened 
and had been given a place of honor in the 
new structure. 

“ Yes ; I ’m taking it home, Amos. I guess 
I know when my toes have been tramped 
on. I told the old Deacon to-day that 
the church of the Lord ain’t all steeple an’ 
bell. And I quoted him scripture to prove 
it ! They can’t shame me an’ mine without 
learning something for their edification. Oh, 
the Deacon’ll be ’round sweet as pie with 
th’ next subscription paper for the yearly 
expenses. But they can’t ride rough-shod 
over Aunt Pomilla — an’ they won’t try it 
again, either ! ” 


258 


WITHOUT THE CAMP 


The ringlets of the woman whose 44 spunk ” 
and 44 butter money ” were both subjects of 
public comment, shook with resentment, as 
she gathered her silk shawl tighter about her 
plump shoulders and trudged on towards 
the big white house, grand with glass doors 
and with chandeliers hung with tinkling and 
resplendent prisms, where she had given the 
principal social functions of the church for 
twenty years. 

In the twilight, that evening, as the bell 
in the white steeple gave out its vibrant call 
for the 44 special consecration ” meeting, Har- 
low shyly remarked to his mother : 

44 Sounds nice, don’t it ? ” 

And by this token she knew that a meas- 
ure of the boy’s peace and pride had been 
restored. 


259 


HOW THE METEOR STRUCK 
HARDSCRABBLE 


HE comfortable, melodious twitter of 



1 a thousand blackbirds settling down 
for the night on the rushes and willows that 
fringed the mill-pond made a vesper chorus 
of no mean volume, but this was the first 
time Harlow had ever been conscious of the 
music while playing with the town boys in 
the horse-sheds of the village church. It 
did not occur to him that never before had 
the boys been so ominously quiet at an 
evening gathering of the clans at this favor- 
ite rendezvous. Not a stick was slapping 
the beams, not a mouth was sending forth 
those ear-shattering noises that are the joy 
of the male youngster, and even the loose 
swaying board at the back of the Hulett 
stall was not being manipulated by the 
hands skilled in obtaining from this humble 
instrument its full musical possibilities. 

But suddenly Clarence Bardwell slipped 
from his perch, caught on a brace below. 


260 


THE METEOR 


clasped a cross-beam with his legs, dangled 
for a moment with his head down, and finally 
made a mighty show of knocking his pate 
against the upright support of the stall. 

This final act of the pantomime was by 
way of announcing that a great thought, 
long-delayed, had at last dawned upon him, 
and he was beating his head against a beam 
because his inspiration had not come sooner. 
Harlow, “ Shucks ” and “ Pud ” instantly 
followed with other monkeyish manoeuvres, 
as a token that the importance of the light 
that had dawned upon Clarence was appre- 
ciated and its revelation awaited with be- 
coming interest. 

The oracle then seated himself on the big 
bottom-beam, separating the Deacon Shep- 
ard and the Hulett stalls, and his accomplices 
crowded around him as he exclaimed : 

“ Gee ! Fellers ! Oh ! but we ’ll make him 
think the Last Day ’s come ! It ’s the all- 
firedest best thing we Ve thought of yet. 
He ’ll just be so crazy-mad he ’ll ’sassinate 
us !” 

“He” was the new hotel-keeper, vari- 
ously referred to as “ The Spaniard,” “ Old 
Donn,” and “ Busti.” This interloper who 
had bought Todd’s Tavern was the greatest 
261 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


acquisition, so far as dramatic possibilities 
were concerned, Hardscrabble had ever 
known, at least in the estimation of the 
juvenile portion of the village. His swarthy 
face was adorned with a flowing black mous- 
tache and a stiff, belligerent goatee, and his 
eyes and hair were intensely, brightly black. 

“ A dead ringer for the chief of the brig- 
ands in Jack Harkaway ! ” was the whispered 
comment with which Harlow had greeted 
the appearance of Mr. Donn, the new tavern- 
keeper from East Busti, the day he came 
over in the stage. This phrase was marvel- 
lously descriptive to the minds for which it 
was intended. Mystery, romance, and wicked 
bravery were thenceforth stamped on the 
face of the stranger who had “ bought out 
Todd.” 

From that day a potential villain — digni- 
fied and picturesque — was a tangible per- 
son in the affairs of the mystic world which 
touched earth at the horse-sheds, the school- 
yard, the swimming-hole, and other places 
where boys gathered and lived their real 
lives. 

“ Looks like the Spaniard in the gog- 
erphy,” Pud Wilkins had suggested, after 
the boys had stolen their first view of 
262 


THE METEOR 

the new-comer that memorable day of his 
arrival. 

“ Course ! ” Clarence had answered ; 
“hain’t his name Don? That’s ’n awful 
common name ’mong Spaniards.” 

Not only was this argument incontro- 
vertible in itself, but it was advanced by the 
grandson of Esquire Tamlin, the village 
postmaster and druggist. A boy of such 
antecedents, permitted to stand within the 
sacred precincts behind the “ boxes ” of the 
post-office and to open the odorous drawers 
and jars behind the drug-store counter, was 
surely in familiar touch with mysteries far 
beyond common reach, and therefore com- 
manded uncommon respect. 

The arrival of the tavern-keeper’s house- 
hold goods had been eagerly watched by 
the boys, and this display of industry had 
been rewarded by a glimpse of a rifle with 
a very short barrel and a peculiar stock. 
Thenceforth the frequenters of the horse- 
sheds lived in perpetual expectation of the 
day when the bloodthirsty Spaniard would 
bring out his deadly weapon and plunge the 
village into tragedy. 

The persistent refusal of the Spaniard to 
bathe the village in blood, and the pro- 
263 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


tracted good behavior of the group of 
youngsters who frequented the horse-sheds 
suddenly conspired to arouse in the boys a 
deep yearning for something which should 
break the monotony of events in Hard- 
scrabble with a crash that would be long 
remembered in the history of the town. 
This common impulse made itself felt at 
recess, and the word was passed around that 
the clans would meet at the horse-sheds 
after the mail was distributed. 

Intuition told Harlow that something was 
about to happen, and he asked permission 
to stay all night with Clarence. This was 
granted, and his father rode home without 
him. Then came the meeting at the sheds 
and the inspiration of Clarence. In the 
conference which followed the announce- 
ment that, at last, the slumbering passions 
of the Spaniard would be awakened to 
awful activity, the boy who sometimes 
“ smelled like a doctor ” and “ went right 
in among the shelves set with bottles of 
poison ” made this revelation : 

“ I ’ll tell y’ right now I hain’t goin’ into 
this thing ’thout every feller ’ll cross his 
heart an’ hope to die he 11 never tell. ’Cause 
if he does, he ’ll get a bullet from Old 
264 


THE METEOR 


Donn’s little rifle — you c’n just bet on 
that! This hain’t no easy secret that you 
c’n keep ’til some boy gits round you an’ 
tells what he’s goin’ to do some time ’r 
’nother, when he gits a good chanst, an’ 
you feel like tellin’ him something. We’ll 
have to keep it right to ourselves, if we — 
bust ! ” 

“Aw! why don’t y’ spit it out!” con- 
temptuously suggested Harlow. 

“ That ’s all right,” returned the boy from 
the drug-store, taking a small phial of win- 
tergreen essence from his pocket. He toyed 
with it indifferently until Harlow humbled 
himself by the request: 

“ Gimme a taste.” 

The token of peace and fellowship was 
passed and Harlow carefully removed the 
cork, touching its wet end to the point of 
his tongue with epicurean deliberation. The 
delicious burnings which followed this appli- 
cation of the cork inspired him with fresh 
realization of the importance of a boy who 
enjoyed the full liberty of a drug-store and 
dispensed “tastes” of essence with easy 
prodigality. He started to pass the phial 
back to its owner, but was interrupted by 
the husky voice of Shucks : 

265 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“ Here, hoggy ! Goin’ t’ let th’ rest of us 
smell yer breath, eh ? ” 

Like a pipe of peace the tiny bottle passed 
from hand to hand until every tongue had 
touched the tip of the cork and the air was 
redolent with wintergreen. Then Harlow 
suggested : 

“ Aw ! I guess we c’n keep a secret ’s 
good uz you can.” 

“ If we ’re goin’ t’ do anything we ’ve gotta 
stir our stumps,” seconded the practical 
Pud. 

“Well,” promptly returned the oracle, 
“ here, I cross m’ heart an’ hope t’ die ! ” 
Four grim hands moved in unison with his 
and traced upon four mischief-breeding 
breasts the sign of the cross. 

Shucks started to place the tips of two 
fingers between his teeth and shiver the 
night with a piercing whistle, in celebra- 
tion of the glorious invention of wickedness 
which the drug-store oracle was about to 
divulge, but he was checked by a kick from 
the bare foot of Harlow, who slyly slipped a 
fragment of licorice root into his mouth and 
said : 

“ G’wan.” 

“Well,” resumed Clarence, “y’ know ol’ 
266 


THE METEOR 


Donn’s wife ’s ’n awful spirchulist an I heard 
him tell that drummer from Buffalo that 
he ’d seen a few things himself — spooks, I 
s’pose, an’ them things.” 

At this point of the unfolding of the 
scheme for the arousing of the Spaniard, the 
emotions of the speaker became so inexpress- 
ible that he jumped to a beam, “ chinned ” 
seven times, made his ears “waggle,” and 
finally exclaimed : 

“ Oh ! but he 11 see ’m to-night ! ” 

“ Aw, come on ! Why doancha tell ? ” 
interrupted Pud with threatening impa- 
tience. Under this spur Clarence pro- 
ceeded : 

“ I c’n put my hand right on a can uv 
stuff that’ll shoot off just awful a minnit ’r 
two after y’ drop some acid on it. Grampa 
fixed some fer that political man down on 
Town Line when they had the celebration 
there. They ’s a lot left in the can. I for- 
got all about it. Grampa took a little piece 
’bout ’s big ’s a but’nut an’ showed th’ feller 
how it worked. Just that little mite uv a 
piece shot up like a house-afire ! It must a 
went’s high’s this shed, an’ the flame was 
awful funny color. If we fire all’s left in 
the can it’ll reach clean t’ th’ sky an’ th’ 
267 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


Spaniard ’ll think V’suvius is spoutin’ fire 
right in th’ middle uv th’ street, front uv th’ 
tavern. But betcha we ’ll have to lay low 
an’ not even snicker, ’r he ’ll kill us. What 
d’ say ? ” The response came in chorus : 

“ All hunky ! ” 

“ Sure fire ! ” 

“ Bully!” 

“ Huh ! how y’ goin’ t’ git in th’ store 
after y’r Grampa ’s gone fer th’ night ? ” in- 
quired Harlow. 

“Wait ’n see,” was the confident response of 
Clarence. “ We’ll just about ketch him now ! 
You fellers drop back, an’ I ’ll tend t’ th’ key.” 

With these instructions he took hasty 
leave of his companions and raced up the 
street, managing to encounter the post- 
master when he was too far from the drug- 
store to turn back. Instead he handed the 
key to his grandson and gave the time-worn 
and perfunctory injunction : 

“Now don’t play out too late an’ don’t 
make a noise when you come in. I ’ll leave 
the back door unlocked. Be sure you try 
the door after you leave the store.” 

“ Wha’ d’ y’ tell ’im ? ” inquired Pud as 
the group met Clarence and saw that he 
had the key. 


268 


THE METEOR 


“ Told him I forgot somethin’ an’ wanted 
th’ key. Why, that hain’t any great shakes. 
I ’ve had the key lots o’ times.” 

“ Now slip in after me — an’ do it still ! ” 
Softly the key was turned and the quartette 
of conspirators against the peace of Hard- 
scrabble stole inside the drug-store and 
groped their way along the front of the 
counter to the opening leading behind it. 

“ Now wait till I reach down that can of 
phosph’rus stuff an’ th’ bottle of acid. I can 
go right to um in the dark.” 

This marvellous familiarity with the mys- 
teries of the drug- store mightily impressed 
his compatriots. 

“ All right. Got um both,” was the husky 
but cheering intelligence which soon broke 
the silence. “Now you go straight ahead 
past the boxes an’ lay down in th’ window.” 

The boys crept stealthily to the deep win- 
dow and stretched themselves out in a row 
on their stomachs, their uplifted chins rest- 
ing in their hands and their elbows planted 
stiffly akimbo. The delicious moment of 
suspense preceding a master-stroke of mis- 
chief had come. Every heart pounded with 
strokes fairly audible in the stillness of the 
darkened store. 


269 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


The nocturnal habits of the tavern-keeper 
were better known to the boys than to most 
of the adult inhabitants of the village. They 
knew the moment when the secret card- 
game was due to open and to close in the 
back room over the blacksmith shop, and 
that Old Donn never failed to stop at the 
barn, on his way back from the game, to try 
the padlock of the door. The door of the 
drug-store was left ajar so that the waiting 
Clarence might hear the rattle of the pad- 
lock, rush into the street, and drop the acid 
on the little heap of mysterious powder. 
The resultant fiery display would take place 
just as the Spaniard came around the corner 
to enter the tavern door. In order that not 
a particle of the explosive should be wasted, 
Harlow was ordered to make ready with a 
flat stone, on which the powder was to be 
poured. 

“ There he comes ! Now git ! ” com- 
manded Clarence, as the rattle of the pad- 
lock reached his ears. Swiftly the two boys 
darted to the centre of the street, where 
Harlow dropped the stone. To empty 
thereon the loose powder from the can and 
apply the acid was the work of a moment. 
The hearts of the waiting conspirators almost 
270 


THE METEOR 


stopped beating until their companions were 
again safe inside the drug-store. Then fol- 
lowed a moment of delicious but acute sus- 
pense to the four youngsters stretched out 
in the window. Would the chemicals fail 
to perform the marvels so graphically de- 
scribed by Clarence ? Only an instant were 
they in doubt. 

Scarcely a second after the Spaniard turned 
the corner, reached forth his hand and set his 
thumb on the heavy latch of the big front 
door, there was a hissing, sizzling sound, and 
a pillar of fire, lurid and fantastic, lighted 
The Corners with a ghastly brilliancy. 

At first the eyes of the watchers were 
blinded by the glare, but they blinked into 
adjustment in time to secure a clear vision 
of the Spaniard’s figure, flattened and shrink- 
ing against the door, his hand still clutching 
the latch. His face was pallid to chalkiness, 
and his black eyes looked strangely, inhu- 
manly fierce to the boys as he stared at the 
pillar of fire. 

Each instant the wicked quartette in the 
drug-store expected to see the column of 
flame die down and disappear, but it lin- 
gered with demoniac persistency — a shiver- 
ing, palpitant shaft, that seemed imbued 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


with life. Its authors began to feel a super- 
stitious terror, — an awful fear that as a 
judgment upon them it might last for- 
ever. Seconds seemed minutes, and minutes 
stretched to hours in the agony of waiting 
for the restoration of darkness. But at last 
the terrible shaft of flame blinked itself out. 
Never before had night appeared so black to 
the boys. 

A moment later the insignificant light of 
a lantern showed in the door of the tavern, 
and its rays were reflected by the polished 
steel of the rifle’s barrel. The Spaniard and 
his deadly weapon were actually on the scene. 

44 See there, he — ” but Pud was not priv- 
ileged to finish his remark. A dig in the 
side made him catch his breath and he heard 
the injunction : 

“ Shut tup ! Ninny ! D’ wantta be mur- 
dered ? ” 

Each boy felt the chilling conviction that 
the time had come to flee, but remained 
hopelessly fascinated and unable to stir a 
limb. How the octagon barrel of the rifle 
glistened in the light of the lantern — glis- 
tened with a wicked shine ! 

For a moment the Spaniard stood in the 
centre of the street stooping over the black- 
272 


THE METEOR 


ened stone. Then he straightened up and 
looked up and down the two streets of The 
Corners. As a better realization of the 
mystery with which the tavern-keeper was 
struggling came to the culprits in the drug- 
store, they began to shake and wriggle with 
suppressed laughter. This would inevitably 
have increased in volume and passed control 
had not the Spaniard turned in the direc- 
tion of a swaying, bobbing lantern. The 
bearer of the lantern panted : 

“ What in hell ’s fire ? ” 

The tavern-keeper returned an equally 
profane and incoherent answer : 

“ Damnation let loose, I guess ! Lord ! 
W a’n’t it awful ? ” 

His words were distinctly audible to the 
quaking refugees in the drug- store, and in 
a husky whisper Clarence exclaimed : 

“ Quick now ! Out th’ road ’til I turn 
that key. Duck down an’ make for th’ 
back-room window. No — wait ’til I lock 
in front an’ lead, so ’s you won’t stumble.” 

Clarence made a quick but stealthy ad- 
vance to the front door. 

He grasped the big brass key and turned 
it softly. Gaining the passage behind the 
counter he whispered : 

18 273 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


“ Injun file ! Hands on shoulders, an’ look 
out for th’ step down into the oil room ! ” 

One moment they halted in the oil room 
and held their breath as they listened for 
the footsteps of possible searchers in the 
roadway behind the store. Not detecting 
any suspicious sound, Clarence opened the 
back door and whispered : 

“ Put that box under the window out- 
side. I ’ve got to hook this door inside an’ 
crawl out th’ window. Don’t skin yet.” 

Pud and Harlow arranged the box while 
Shucks acted as sentinel. The moments 
which elapsed before the head of Clarence 
appeared in the half-opened window were 
excruciating to the fleeing youngsters. 

“ Look out fer y’r heels. Hustle ! They ’ll 
be back here in a jiffy,” were the impatient 
words which Clarence uttered as he crawled 
carefully out of the window into the arms of 
his helpers. 

“ Skin right up through th’ orchard an’ 
follow Miller’s line fence to th’ sugar house. 
They’ll git us sure if we try Tew’s gully. 
See the lanterns ! ” 

There was a general scramble to put this 
order in execution, and the crouching four 
slipped swiftly through the fence, stole softly 
274 


THE METEOR 


beneath the apple trees, and had almost 
reached the protecting shadow of Ely’s hen- 
house when the silence was broken by a groan 
and the cry : 

“ Darn that stone-bruise ! ” 

A lantern, speeding its unsteady way down 
the hill, halted suddenly. Each boy followed 
the example of the leader and dropped on the 
ground after the manner of Wild Bill, there 
to lie breathlessly until another lantern came 
up with the first and a voice was heard 
saying : 

“ Thought I heard something. Hark a 
minute.” 

Outwardly each prostrate youngster was 
covered with a sweat of fear ; inwardly a 
perverse and unaccountable impulse to break 
out into laughter was struggling for su- 
premacy and shaking the stomachs flattened 
upon the orchard grass. Before this ten- 
dency became uncontrollable the second lan- 
tern-bearer said : 

“ Can’t hear nothin’, c’n you ? Hurry up, 
so ’s we c’n get there an’ find out what in 
Tunket ’s t’ pay.” 

Once more the line of bended figures 
pushed forward toward the line fence and 
the lanterns went glimmering down the hill. 

275 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


Not till the fugitives reached the edge of 
Miller’s woods, on the very brow of the hill, 
did they pause for breath. Pud threw him- 
self panting on the ground and voiced a 
common sentiment : 

“ Gee ! but this scout movement makes 
a feller’s side ache awful, don’t it ? Jim- 
minny-crickets ! but look at the lanterns. 
Everybody in the whole town ’s rattlin’ out. 
W onder what Ol’ Donn ’s tellin’ ’em ? ” 

This suggestion let loose the pent-up floods 
of laughter and the four culprits rolled on 
the wiry poverty grass of the hillside in con- 
tortions of merriment. The sharp needles 
of a few Canada thistles soon brought them 
to a serious mood and another council of 
war was held. 

“ Had we better sneak in an’ get t’ bed 
’fore th’ folks come back from th’ street, ’r 
shall we just happen t’ meet ’em at Th’ Cor- 
ners ? ” inquired Harlow. 

“ Grampa don’t wake easy,” replied Clar- 
ence, “ an’ he may not be out. So you ’n’ I 
better git in th’ back door, Harlow. Gramp 
knows you’re goin’ t’ stay all night with 
me.” 

“ Huh ! ” proudly rejoined Pud, “ my Dad 
’ud know sure I done it if he did n’t have to 
27 6 




Gentlemen, as I’ve said before tonight, this haint no human’s work. It’s the Almighty’s doin’s. 









THE METEOR 


hunt me up ’fore he started home. You’ll 
find me right in th’ crowd ’s soon ’s I c’n git 
there. ’T ain’t safe fer me to be too far 
away from trouble.” 

“ Y’ don’t hear any of um calling 4 alls-in- 
free,’ do ye ? ” laughingly asked Shucks. 

“ Nope,” answered Clarence, “ but we 
better sneak all the samey, ’r we’ll be It.” 

“ Wait ! ” commanded Clarence after they 
had begun to separate. “ Cross y’r hearts 
again y’ ’ll never, never breathe a word — 
not till Ol’ Donn dies ’r moves out of 
town ! ” 

Very slowly they obeyed, and Harlow and 
Clarence circled about toward the Fredonia 
road, while Shucks and Pud crept daringly 
through the Tew gully, suddenly emerg- 
ing from the shadow of the blacksmith 
shop. When first seen that evening by 
an adult they were wedging their way be- 
tween the legs of a crowd of men surround- 
ing the Spaniard. The latter was pointing 
to the discolored stone on which the chemi- 
cals had been exploded. 

“ Gentlemen,” the boys heard him say, 
“ as I Ve said before to-night, this hain’t no 
human’s work. It ’s the Almighty’s doin’s. 
He ’s ben a throwin’ hot stones, an’ I ’m an 
277 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


eye-witness t’ th’ fact. Right there ’s where 
th’ me-te-er struck. There ’s th’ very stone, 
an it hain’t goin’ t’ be safe fer anybody t’ 
move it till all ’s had a chanst t’ see it in 
its natch! state. Then I ’m goin’ t’ send it 
t’ th’ editur o’ th’ 4 Trybune ’ an’ have !m 
dissect it. They know all about me-te-ers 
in that office. I ’ve read considerable long 
that line myself, in th’ twenty years I’ve 
took that paper. Oh ! but it was th’ most 
turruble sight I ever seen when that stone 
come flamin’ down from above. I dunno 
what possessed me t’ grab my gun ’nless 
it ’s ’cause I was raised in a country where 
trouble alius meant shoo tin’, an’ when any- 
thin’ excitin’ happened a man just natch’ly 
reached fer his rifle. But, Lord ! this kind 
o’ thing could n’t a ben fought with a gun. 
Not much ! ” 

The boys with their guilty secret made 
away into the darkness, going home around 
by the race and the dam in order to avoid 
the citizens straggling homeward in excited 
groups. 

The dawn of Saturday morning found 
Hardscrabble in a strange mood. For once 
the whole community felt the fever of dis- 
sipation, attended by various symptoms of 
278 


THE METEOR 


a weird, uncanny kind. The four culprits, 
swelling with the fearful responsibility of 
a real secret, the accidental divulgence of 
which meant certain calamity, were de- 
voutly thankful there was no school to 
attend until they had become a little ac- 
customed to the weight of their mental 
burden. Each realized that the supreme 
test of their powers of endurance would 
come when the subject of the meteor was 
brought before the school. It was one thing 
to keep a straight face when listening to the 
comments of the men in the stores and on 
the streets, and quite another to control the 
unruly and itching muscles of face and dia- 
phragm when this ticklish topic was solemnly 
proposed in the presence of their mates. 

By force of a common impulse the guilty 
four met at the old distillery on the side 
hill. This building had long been deserted 
and was allowed to stand as a reminder of 
the former wickedness of Hardscrabble. 
Within its weatherbeaten sides the boys 
knew they would be safe from intrusion. 

An undertone of seriousness and emo- 
tional strain became apparent as the first 
greetings were over, and Clarence took his 
stand behind a cask which had shed one 
279 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


hoop and seemed dangerously unsteady on 
its end. The shamefaced grin which pulled 
and twitched at the corners of his mouth 
when he began to speak, rapidly vanished 
into pompousness as the oracle of the drug- 
store began to discourse on the gravity of 
the situation which confronted them. 

“ It seemed like a big joke when we 
started it,” said the orator, “ but we did n’t 
really believe ’t would ’mount to anything 
like this. Grampa says it ’s bound to get 
into th’ big papers way off, an’ that p’raps 
men that write about such things in school- 
books ’ll come here t’ study th’ thing up. 
All that ’ll set Ol’ Donn up so ’s he ’ll swell 
s’ big th’ town won’t hold ’im. Then let 
’im find it ’s a put-up job, an’ he ’ll fix us ! 
It ’s ’n awful thing t’ do, swearin’ not to tell 
a thing, an’ th’ most solemnest kind of oath 
is t’ kiss th’ Bible, like they do when men 
’re put on trial f ’r their lives.” 

There was a strenuous pause in which 
the drug-store boy struggled for words with 
which to connect his oration with the prac- 
tical measures it was intended to introduce. 
But no such words came to his relief, and 
he was forced to draw from the interior 
of his waist a small clasp- Bible. This he 
280 


THE METEOR 


placed on the head of the cask. He had 
once been with his grandfather to the 
county seat, and had witnessed a session 
of the circuit court. What he had there 
seen was strangely blended with the ritu- 
als of boyhood, although his standing for 
worldly wisdom was established beyond 
question through the instrumentality of 
that trip. This reputation was at stake, 
and he proposed to maintain it. Snatch- 
ing off his cap he held it behind his back 
in his left hand, uplifted his right to the full 
length of his arm, and stood rigidly erect as 
he exclaimed in mumbling tones : 

“ Hope t’ die an’ follow the awful fate of 
liars if I tell a word ’bout th’ trick on th’ 
Spaniard t’ a livin’ soul ’s long’s he lives 
here, s’ help me God ! ” 

With hand still upraised he bent slowly 
above the Bible until his lips touched the 
sacred volume. As slowly he straightened 
up and then took three steps backward and 
wheeled about. 

Pud stood next in line and realized, with- 
out being told, what was expected of him. 
As he slid from the barrel on which he had 
been seated and ambled awkwardly forward, 
Clarence instinctively took a position from 
281 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


which he could command a full view of the 
hands and toes of the one about to take the 
oath. That Pud would attempt to break 
the force and obligation of his oath by cross- 
ing two of his fingers or toes was a bit of 
disingenuousness which seemed not wholly 
beyond the suspicions of his companions. 

Shucks and Harlow followed in assum- 
ing the sacred pledge by repeating the pre- 
scribed ritual and touching their lips to the 
revered book on the head of the cask. 

The solemnity of their oath of secrecy 
was not even dispelled by plunging into the 
cheerful glare of sunlight which greeted their 
shrinking eyes as they emerged from the 
dingy old distillery. Their training and 
traditions were too soundly orthodox, and 
their imaginations too lively and impression- 
able not to have been profoundly awed by 
the ceremonial devised by the worldly-wise 
Clarence. 

It was not strange, therefore, that the 
faces of the four members of the horse-shed 
gang were becomingly grave as they strag- 
gled along the street and leaned against the 
supports of the wood awnings in front of the 
drug-store. Shed ’s butter cellar was under- 
neath the post-office and this was butter 
282 


THE METEOR 


day — two facts which accounted for the 
concentration of village life at this par- 
ticular point. 

“ What d’ y think about it, Uncle ’Lish ? ” 
inquired Supervisor Burdick, poising a tub 
of butter on his hip. The boys listened 
eagerly for the tall, cadaverous man with 
the name of the prophet, who held to the 
town the same relation of oracular elevation 
and intellectual superiority that the drug- 
store boy held to his mates. The skin was 
drawn so tightly over the high cheek-bones 
of the man of wisdom that it glistened with 
an uncanny lustre as he spoke. 

“ I ’m inclined to believe that neighbor 
Donn ’s hit on the right theory — but of 
course that can’t really be settled to a scien- 
tific certainty until the stone ’s been sent to 
the geologist. I ’m for sending it to the 
authorities at the Smithsonian, at Washing- 
ton. But certainly it ’s due to the people of 
this community to put it on exhibition. 
It ’s bound to attract wide attention, and I 
should n’t wonder if we ’d have some big 
scientists here from a distance to see it. 
Anyhow I don’t feel quite equal to passing 
on it myself.” 

The crowd was both delighted and dis- 
283 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


appointed. That which gave pause to the 
man whose “ gen’l information ” was the 
marvel and pride of his townsmen must be 
indeed a mystery. One of his hearers re- 
marked : 

“ 1 11 bet it 11 be a sticker for the best of 
’em.” 

“ That’s a mighty interestin’ stone to me,” 
volunteered Ed Kelly. He allowed a mo- 
ment of silence to give emphasis to this 
announcement. Then his freckled cheeks 
showed a flush of color as he proceeded : 

“ I ’d been out rather late — ” 

“Yes — we understand, Ed,” chuckled 
the postmaster, “just sparkin’ a little down 
on th’ Munger Flats.” 

“ W ell, I hain’t disputin’ it,” he resumed. 
“ But what ’s more t’ th’ point is that I drove 
right over th’ spot where that met’r fell 
exactly five minutes before it dropped — 
just five minutes.” 

The gravity of this coincidence was clearly 
appreciated by his auditors. Intuitively 
they understood that his escape would make 
him a marked man, an historic character. 
How narrowly the bolt of death had missed 
him would be told the children of Hard- 
scrabble to the third and fourth generations. 

284 


THE METEOR 


Men who had not attended divine service 
for years were early on the broad steps of 
the church the following morning. There 
was a silent and universal recognition of the 
fact that the fiery baptism of the town 
would light up the preacher’s sermon with 
unwonted brilliancy, and even the shoe- 
maker, who was generally held to be little 
short of an infidel, was among those who 
eagerly waited the rare oratorical display 
which the meteor was certain to inspire. 
The text was short : “ A consuming fire.” 

“ Science,” declared the preacher, “ will 
busy itself in explaining the nature of the 
mysterious celestial visitant which has star- 
tled this community from its midnight slum- 
bers. But I have another message. Be 
warned ! Heed this fiery evangel. Give 
pause to this flaming suggestion hurled from 
the far height of a distant world. Through 
what measureless depths of space has it 
travelled ! If every inch of that immeasur- 
able journey were a century, eternity would 
be in its infancy when that vast total of 
time were consumed. And this is the eter- 
nity in which the unredeemed must atone 
for their deeds done in the flesh, while the 
blessed will enjoy the rich delights of para- 
285 


THE COUNTRY BOY 

dise. And who can doubt that this blazing 
messenger from the mysterious heights of 
the heavens was graciously sent to arrest the 
worldly, to arouse the sleeping, and turn the 
thought of all to the solemn and eternal 
concern of the soul ? Let no profane scoffer 
ever again dare to doubt the intervention 
of Providence.” 

Harlow squirmed visibly under this sol- 
emn appeal. At first it almost seemed to 
him that the joke on the tavern-keeper was 
only a dream, that a meteor had really fallen, 
and that it had the solemn meaning pro- 
claimed by the preacher. This was followed 
by the startling, uncomfortable and persist- 
ent conviction that a minister, a man “ called 
of God,” might be mistaken in anything de- 
livered from the pulpit. But he had him- 
self carried the stone into the street and 
knew that it was not the wonderful thing 
described by the preacher. This great dif- 
ference between the actual state of things 
and that impressively described by Elder 
Noble shocked instead of amused the boy, 
carefully trained in the reverence of every- 
thing associated with the church. That 
mighty weight of authority as of one who 
spake not in the words of man’s wisdom, 
286 


THE METEOR 


but by divine inspiration and as the oracle 
of God, was hopelessly cheapened in Har- 
low’s esteem, although he resolutely battled 
against this conclusion. The preacher had 
been desperately fooled on that which had 
formed the basis of his most eloquent ser- 
mon, and the knowledge of this, so far as 
Harlow was concerned, tainted the sound- 
ness of all preceding discourses. He wished 
that he did not carry such an awful burden 
of shameful knowledge. The first pangs of 
worldly cynicism pierced him sore and he 
did not know the real cause of his wound. 

As the boys listened to the comments of 
the men who stood on the broad steps and 
gathered under the shade of the maples in 
the front yard of the church, the four guilty 
keepers of the secret oath thought they real- 
ized the dreadful proportions of the excite- 
ment aroused by their mischievous attempt 
to provoke the Spaniard to a proper display 
of villany ; before the sun dropped behind 
the rugged Busti hills, however, the young- 
sters knew they had only begun to awaken 
to the enormity of the conflagration they 
had kindled in the flax field of the rural 
mind. Teams by the score were driven into 
the village and the tavern had never been 
287 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


so crowded since the day of its opening, 
twenty-five years before. Young men with 
their sweethearts drove up in shining top 
buggies drawn by dashing roadsters, tossed 
the lines to the waiting hostler, and ordered 
him to “ put out the rig ” and give the horse 
a “good round feed.” The front parlor was 
crowded with these giggling guests, who had 
come from remote parts of the county to 
behold the marvellous stone, to listen to Old 
Donn’s thrilling recital, and to have a part 
in the splendid excitement which had fol- 
lowed in the wake of the fiery ordeal of the 
night. Considering the lateness of the hour 
when the meteor made its descent on Hard- 
scrabble, the number of young men who 
confessed to having witnessed the spectacle 
from the hills and highways of the sur- 
rounding country was really remarkable. 
“Near ’s I can figger,” commented Perry 
Elkins, the auctioneer and town wit, “ there 
wasn’t an able-bodied unmarried man in 
the township of Hardscrabble that wasn’t 
out sparkin’ as late as midnight. But the 
meteor may have had something to do with 
that — sort of a celestial attraction, you 
understand.” 

As the week progressed the influx of vis- 
288 


THE METEOR 


itors increased, and the street in front of the 
tavern was crowded with lumber wagons, 
buggies, and “ democrat wagons” from every 
portion of the country within a radius 
of twenty miles. After the mailing day 
of the Weekly Monitor the incoming crowd 
doubled, and every vehicle that rattled or 
thundered across the red bridge, within ear- 
shot of the school, added to the weight of 
the secret burden pressing on the hearts of 
the four boys who had devised wickedly 
in the shadows of the horse-shed. 

Harlow was in the post-office the follow- 
ing Saturday, when the Spaniard nervously 
tore the wrappings from the “ Trybune ” 
and cast an eager glance over its pages. 
Suddenly he paused, and exclaimed : 

“ By gar ! There ’t is, big ’s life ! ‘ Hard- 
scrabble Hit From On High ! 5 Why, the 
darned piece most covers the whole column. 
Here, Uncle ’Lish, you better come over in 
th’ hotel and read it fer the benefit of the 
whole community. I don’t make no pre- 
tensions as a reader , an’ there hain’t your 
better in the township on that sort of a 
stint.” 

An unwonted elasticity in the step of the 
two men as they crossed the street to the 
19 289 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


tavern published the importance of the busi- 
ness in hand as effectually as if the auction 
bell had been sounded. By the time Uncle 
Elisha had deprecatingly remarked that the 
preacher or the school teacher should have 
been chosen to read the account of the 
meteor’s fall, the room was well filled and 
his audience included four rather pale 
youngsters whose faces showed traces of 
unusual if not premature seriousness. The 
Adam’s-apple in the throat of the man of 
wisdom bobbed like a cork on a fish-line 
as he swallowed nervously and rubbed his 
spectacles preparatory to reading. In this 
interim Clarence poked Shucks in the ribs 
and then drew his finger across his throat 
— a signal which had been agreed upon as 
meaning “ Remember your oath.” This 
solemn injunction was passed on until every 
member of the quartette had been reminded 
of his awful obligation and its prospective 
penalty. 

“ Terrified Villagers Think the Judgment 
Day at Hand,” read the town oracle, with 
impressive deliberation. 

5 ‘ Bravery of the Local Boniface ; He Gets 
his Gun and Defies the Powers of Darkness. 
Carping Critics in Neighboring Towns 
290 


THE METEOR 

Suggests the Doughty Host has Fish to 
Fry.” 

“ What ? ” interrupted the sharp voice of 
the Spaniard. “Who says that? Damn 
’em, I ’d hunt ’em down like — ” 

Elder Noble suddenly made his presence 
known, laid a hand on the shoulder of the 
trembling tavern-keeper, and very calmly 
said : 

“ Patience, neighbor Donn — patience ! 
Let us read to the end. It may be only 
the baseless inference of the newspaper. 
Certainly every citizen of this town will 
rally to the vindication of your integrity 
and bravery. Let us read on to the end.” 

Four auditors, who had seen the fire 
gleam from the eyes of the angry tavern- 
keeper, did not remain to hear the conclu- 
sion of the reading. So deftly and silently 
did they make their retreat from the 
crowded room that their exit was un- 
noticed by a single adult. 

Five minutes later there was another 
secret gathering in the old distillery; but 
this time the precaution was taken to ap- 
point a sentry, who was charged not to re- 
move his eyes from the lookout hole for so 
much as an instant. 


291 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


There was an awkward silence broken by 
the almost tearful voice of Pud, the young- 
est of the band, as he blurted : 

“ B’ gumps ! I ’d most ’s lieves be killed 
right now ’s t’ think of havin’ t’ hold this 
secret for years, an’ years, an’ years — ” 

“ Huh ! ” contemptuously interrupted Har- 
low, “ I guess you ’d be glad to keep a dozen 
secrets if he got after y’ once with that little 
short rifle. I thought he ’s a-makin’ for it 
right then. I knew time ’d come t’ skin out.” 

“ I ’ll be dum’d if I don’t wish we ’d 
never done it,” sheepishly admitted Shucks. 
“ It ’s all right daytimes, but when I go t’ 
bed, seems like I can’t think of anything 
but Ol’ Donn, an’ las’ night I dreampt he 
chased me clear int’ th’ Big Woods with his 
rifle.” 

The drug-store boy reserved his declara- 
tion until the others had spoken, then 
smoothed his hair, and said : 

“ I hain’t sayin’ it ’s any fun t’ carry round 
such an awful secret, — ’cause taint ! But 
if any one in this gang feels that he ’s got 
t’ tattle he ’s ’n honor bound t’ tell th’ rest 
beforehand. It ’s no fair t’ put t’ others in 
danger o’ their lives just ’cause he can’t keep 
in an’ respec’ his oath. Grampa says — ” 

292 


THE METEOR 


“ Aw ! Grampa says ! ” interrupted Har- 
low. “ This hain’t no post-office n’r drug- 
store neither ! But th’ feller that tells ’ll get 
one drubbin’, whether th’ Spaniard shoots 
’im ’r not ! ” 

These were brave words and accomplished 
their purpose in curbing the officious pride 
of the drug-store boy. Their tone lacked a 
quality of timorous humility discernible in 
that of the voice which echoed down the 
stairway that night, after his mother had 
sent him to bed, calling, “ Ma ! Ma-ah ! 
Now don’t shet th’ door. An’ why don’t 
y’ sing like y’ used t’, so ’s I c’n hear?” 

In the course of the two years following 
there were repeated meetings of the band 
in the gloom of the deserted distillery, and 
from time to time the far-sighted Clarence 
devised additions to the ceremonial to renew 
the impressiveness of the secret oath and 
press his loyal followers with a fresh sense 
of its importance — and his own. These 
gatherings were not, however, the only 
solemn conferences which grew out of 
the secret burden carried by the penitent 
youngsters. More than once, after Harlow 
had fallen asleep in front of the chunk 
stove in the family sitting-room, his mother 
293 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


had dropped the carpet-rags which she was 
tying, with the remark : 

“ John, I ’m more ’n more convinced that 
boy ’s under conviction. He acts just as I 
used to when I first had a sense of my lost 
condition.” 

“ Huh,” was the usual answer from the un- 
susceptible father, “ more likely he ’s suckin’ 
too much strong essence, and I c’n gen’ly 
smell it a rod off after he ’s ben with that 
drug-store boy. Too much strong essence is 
’bout ’s bad for a boy as too little religion.” 

“ Well,” was the mother’s rejoinder, as 
she sighed and took up her work, “ I feel 
concerned for him, and I think we ought to 
invite Elder Noble out to labor with the 
poor boy. Why, he ’s actually growin’ so 
thin an’ ’pindlin’, it ’s pitiful.” 

But the secret that gnawed at the heart 
of the sensitive Harlow remained unmolested 
and continued its silent devastation until the 
day he went with his father to Lamphere’s 
Hill, to buy the Batcheller butter. A strain 
of rare companionableness came to the sur- 
face of the father’s nature as the buggy 
rattled through the dust toward the village ; 
he alternated the majestic strains of Green- 
land’s Icy Mountains with the playful Old 
294 


THE METEOR 


Dan Tucker. There was no exchange of 
conversation, but the boy was keenly con- 
scious of the man’s gay and approachable 
mood. When they reached The Comers 
Harlow remained in the buggy while his 
father went inside the post-office to inquire 
for the mail. He came out with a quizzical 
smile on his lips, climbed into the buggy, and 
took up the monotonous refrain : 

“ OF Dan Tucker ’s a jolly ol’ feller ; 

He sleeps upstairs with his head down cellar.” 

Not until they had been slowly pulled up 
the first hill did he cease his humming. 
Then he suddenly remarked : 

“ Ol’ Donn ’s sold out to a man from 
Cherry Creek — household goods an’ every- 
thing. Leaves on th’ stage to-day, bag an’ 
baggage. Just the way he come — sudden 
’s a clap o’ thunder.” 

The boy made no reply, but gazed with a 
violent steadfastness at his bare feet. These 
growing members seemed suddenly to exer- 
cise over him an irresistible fascination. He 
pressed them more firmly against the shiny, 
crackled surface of the dashboard, alternately 
spreading and contracting his toes with a 
rythmic motion. 


295 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


Then he heard a low, chuckling sound in 
the depths of his father’s throat, followed by 
the quiet question : 

“ Son, how many of you youngsters was 
mixed up in that meteor business, anyway ? ” 

As the blood leaped to Harlow’s cheeks, 
the words blurted from his white lips : 

“Four — me an’ Clarence ’n’ Shucks ’n’ 
Pud.” 

His next thought brought him a thrill of 
terror — he had broken his oath ! 

Instantly the horse was jerked to a halt. 
In the same quiet voice the father inquired : 

“ An’ you ’ve kept it to yourself through 
all that hullabaloo — kept it fer two years ? ” 

“ Yessur,” replied Harlow, wondering how 
his father had learned the awful secret, but 
almost glad, despite his terror, that at last it 
had escaped from him. Then he added : 
“ It was some stuff Clarence found in the 
drug-store an’ we touched it off with acid, 
on the stone in the road, just as Of Donn 
come ’round the corner. Gee ! but it scared 
him awful ! He just clung t’ th’ big latch- 
handle like he ’d drop dead.” 

The big frame of the man began to quiver 
with internal paroxysms of mirth, his hands 
dropped the reins and pressed hard against 
296 


THE METEOR 


his diaphragm in agony, and finally his lips 
gave forth a cry of laughter Titanic in its 
power. Restraint was not thought of and 
the valley echoed with the shouts and groan- 
ings of his mirth. The horse started ner- 
vously and turned his head, eyeing his 
master curiously. Harlow was torn by 
mingled sympathy with his father’s merri- 
ment and fright at its violence. 

After this storm of laughter had spent its 
first fury, in a sigh which shook the buggy 
the father repeated : 

“ An’ you kept your mouth shet for two 
years ! ” 

Suddenly he straightened up and his eyes 
snapped with a new fire of generous decision. 

“ Boy,” he asked with a sly wink, “ I don’t 
suppose you’d like to own that short-barrelled 
rifle, would y’ ? ” 

“Yes — yessur,” panted Harlow, almost 
unable to comprehend the measure of the 
joy set before him. 

“ Well,” was the assuring answer, “I don’t 
know what y’r ma ’ll say — but by jingoes, if 
he hain’t sold it you shall have that rifle. 
You kept that secret two years. It would 
’a’ busted any grown man in this county 
in six days.” 


297 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


The horse was turned about so suddenly 
that the wheel “cramped ” against the buggy 
side with jarring harshness, and the way back 
to the village was covered with a speed 
which caused passers to stare. 

Before they reached the tavern Harlow 
asked : 

“ Pa, you won’t tell th’ men ’bout it till 
after th’ stage goes — please — will y’ ? ” 

“Nope — if you c’d keep still two years 
I ’ll be able to stand it two hours. I ’ll 
promise.” 

It seemed to the waiting boy in the buggy 
that his father was in the hotel for hours — 
hours in which the conflict between fear and 
hope, despair and ecstasy waged with rack- 
ing intensity. One moment he was sure 
the rifle had been sold ; the next he caught 
cheer from some mysterious process of rea- 
soning and pictured how his father would 
look, a moment later, coming out of the 
tavern door with the precious weapon in his 
hands. Suddenly he caught the words : 

“ I s’pose you ’ll throw in the truck — 
bullets, moulds, an’ things — that belong with 
it, an ’ll warrant it t’ kill meteors at long 
range ? ” 

The next moment Harlow bounded from 

298 


THE METEOR 


the buggy, his hand grasped the shining 
walnut stock of the gun, and he asked : 

“ Pa ! Pa, m’ I show it t’ th’ boys ? ” 

“Yes — light out !” laughed the man ; and 
the boy vanished out of the door and dis- 
appeared in a cloud of dust which moved 
rapidly up the road leading to the church 
horse-sheds. Just before he came into view 
from the stalls he slackened his pace and 
walked as if he had never been in a hurry. 
A chorus of shouts from the depths of the 
sheds greeted him, and the boys dropped 
from the beams and braces like nuts from 
their frosted burrs. Leading the scamper- 
ing horde was the oracle of the drug-store 
and the past-master in the mysteries of 
secret oaths and rituals. 

“ Harlow ! Oh ! Harlow ! ” he panted, 
“ whose — ” 

But he was not suffered to pursue his 
question. The bearer of the short-barrelled 
rifle, the weapon of the proud and villanous 
Spaniard, answered, “ Mine ! ” and crossed 
the road to the blacksmith shop. 

The drug-store boy hesitated. He knew 
that his reign over the boys of the horse- 
sheds was at an end. Should he meekly 
give place to the conquering hero who had 
299 


THE COUNTRY BOY 


dethroned him, or remain haughty to the 
end ? One moment he paused in the thick 
dust of the road to debate his course. How 
brightly the octagon barrel of the gun glis- 
tened in the sunlight ! He crossed to the 
blacksmith shop and meekly supplicated : 

“ Lemme heft it — just once ! ” 

That night, after the stage had vanished 
over the hill with the departing tavern- 
keeper, the father stood on the steps of the 
tavern and “ exploded the meteor ” of Hard- 
scrabble to the most riotous peals of laugh- 
ter that the village had ever known. 

And in the chamber at home a rifle was 
secreted between the sheets, alongside the 
spare body of a sleeping boy. 


THE END 


300 


/ 


OCT 26 1903 


V 


/ 




